


Two Queer Professors Walk into a Bar (They Almost Miss)

by glassessay



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Franny Crozier swears a lot, The Terror Bingo 2019, does one not bring one's habits to academia?, minor Esther Blanky/Thomas Blanky - Freeform, minor Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little - Freeform, not actually there Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassessay/pseuds/glassessay
Summary: The punchline is the thing that happens right before they fall in love.Jamie Fitzjames introduces herself with an outstretched hand and a dazzling smile. Frances can feel another bright young thing sliding into place above her on the faculty totem pole.So maybe Frances despises her a little after just one meeting. Some might call that unjust. Judgmental. Somewhat hypocritical. Frances just calls it what it actually is—gut instinct. One that, she would like to make absolutely clear, was absolutelyright.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 16
Kudos: 84
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Two Queer Professors Walk into a Bar (They Almost Miss)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love letter to the small but good Gender Studies curriculum at my alma mater. It’s also my fill for the prompt “almost kiss” for Terror Bingo. It is _also_ also an excuse to make jokes about my niche personal interests.
> 
> Me, banging on a pot with a wooden spoon: THEY’RE HUMANITIES ACADEMICS  
> Me, making a soup only I want: THEY’RE QUEER WOMEN OVER THE AGE OF 20  
> Me, burning my mouth on my soup as I eat it too fast: THEY TEXT ABOUT JANE AUSTEN

Jamie Fitzjames introduces herself with an outstretched hand and a dazzling smile. Frances feels a twist of foreboding in her stomach.

The new English lit faculty member is tall and beautiful and charming; and she’s being led around to each of the offices in the humanities building by Dean Franklin himself. Frances can feel another bright young thing sliding into place above her on the totem pole.

“Frances Crozier, history department,” she says instead of screaming with frustration. She takes the proffered hand and prays that this will be over with soon.

Fitzjames clasps Frances’ hand in both of hers and beams impossibly brighter. “John was just telling me about you,” she says, shooting a conspiratorial grin back at him. “Only good things, of course.”

Frances highly doubts that. “Of course,” she echoes, pulling her hand back with a twitch. “Nice meeting you.”

She makes a point of not trying to understand their muffled voices once they’ve closed the door.

So maybe Frances despises her a little after just one meeting. Some might call that unjust. Judgmental. Somewhat hypocritical. Frances just calls it what it actually is— _gut instinct_. One that, she would like to make absolutely clear, was _right_.

Never mind that Fitzjames _reeks_ of poncy public school entitlement, never mind that she’s already been awarded a tenure-track position while only barely finished with her post-grad work, never _fucking_ mind that she won’t _shut the hell up_ about her gap year in China; never mind _any_ of those usual markers of nepotistic favouritism that Frances always gets the short end of. The reason Frances _really_ hates Jamie fucking Fitzjames is that she _stole her bloody lecture._

Right the hell out from under her. Fucking saboteur.

Frances has been pitching a Queer History course to John Franklin for years; and for _years_ , it’s just been _oh, I’m not certain that’s a good idea_ and _I’m just not certain how many students would take it_ and _I just don’t want you tiring yourself out_. But then Fitzjames swans in like the perfect little modern Englishwoman she is and the only thing Frances gets is _Jamie was so enthusiastic, she’s just got the youthful energy to really make this thing work!_

As if he hadn’t handed it to Fitzjames so easily in an obvious bid to oust Frances herself.

If Fitzjames had actually thought to use his dislike of Frances to convince John “I don’t mind the homosexuals, I just wish they weren’t so _loud_ ” Franklin to sign off on the paperwork, Frances might almost think her clever. But either Fitzjames was a damn good actor or completely unaware, because she hadn’t seemed the slightest bit apologetic when she had been chattering about her new lecture at a sullen and silent Frances trapped in the lift with her.

That woman is the embodiment of half the things Frances despises about academia _and_ life in general and she doesn’t even have the decency to be aware of it. Frances. _Hates._ Her.

“I think you’ve made that one clear,” Thomas says, picking up another pint glass to dry from the seemingly unending supply behind the counter.

Frances scowls at him, drumming her fingers against the countertop. “I’ve been pitching that class for three years, Thomas! Three years! And she gets it as soon as she takes the job?” She heaves a sigh and grumbles, “It hasn’t even got the right _name_.”

“ _’Gay and Lesbian Studies’_ ,” Thomas quotes flatly. “ _’As if the other letters aren’t even there’_.”

“Exactly!” she flicks a hand up. “As if you don’t even exist!”

“I could be wrong, Fran, but it seems like you’re a bit upset about this.”

“Fuck off,” she says, then sighs and rest her face in her hands. “It’s just a bit—demoralizing.”

Thomas hums as if to say _you’re mentioned_. “Do you want options or just to complain?” he asks, resting an arm on the counter and shifting his weight to the side.

Frances already knows her options. Complain to Dean Franklin—useless. Ask Fitzjames to give her the class—unlikely. Find another job in a university without the aforementioned twats—not when she just only a year out from tenure.

She huffs and drops her forehead to the counter for a moment before propping herself back up. “Just complain. I’m done now, anyway. Thanks for letting me rant.”

“My duty as your best friend and bartender.”

“Cheers,” she grins softly, lifting her water glass toward him, “to the second-best bartender I know.” Thomas makes a noise of mock offence. “Esther being the first of course.”

He laughs. “Aye, that’s fair enough.”

Frances picks up her phone after the first ring and tucks it up against her ear. “Finally bored enough to call me?”

“ _Thomas says you’re having a fit,”_ says the tinny voice of Jane Ross without so much as a “hello” to lead off with.

“Bugger Thomas,” Frances says, swivelling away from her desk and letting a grin crawl across her face. “I am _not_ having a fit.”

“ _Oh, well, in that case. Lovely catching up with you, Franny, but—”_

“Oh, bugger you too,” Frances laughs. “You’re not getting away that easily. How’re Andy and the offspring?”

“ _The light of life and a delightful pair of hellions respectively. How’s the new Dr Fitzjames?”_

Frances scowls into the phone. Outside her window, a pair of students are taking the last few days without lectures to get uncomfortably friendly on a not-quite-secluded bench. “I miss the days when you two didn’t bother to trade notes.”

“ _March of progress, Fran._ ”

Frances picks at a loose thread on the knee of her trousers. “Did he really say I was having a fit?”

Jane makes a vague humming noise. “ _I read a little between the lines._ ”

“It’s not actually something to worry about,” Frances sighs, turning back to the stack of papers on her desk. “I’m just… frustrated with Franklin’s blatant favouritism. Again.”

_“Well. Sorry Frances. At least it’s only his usual pettiness. Can’t say it isn’t common enough—almost makes me glad I left.”_

“Almost? As if not staying in academia because you had to go be Lady Ross was such a hardship.”

_“You wouldn’t say that if you saw all the forms I have to fill out.”_

Frances looks at her desk and raises an eyebrow. “Three words, Jane: graduate seminar papers.”

“ _You love them, don’t lie to me_.”

Frances snorts. “Don’t you have some lackey to do that for you, _your ladyship_?”

“ _Oh, but Jeeves never does them properly_ ,” Jane says in a prim voice that quickly dissolves into giggling.

The phone is warm against Frances’ ear, the buzz of the open line dragging out in a comforting wash of white noise. Down the hall, someone laughs out loud; outside, one of the lovers runs shrieking happily after her girlfriend.

“ _I’m sorry about Franklin_ ,” Jane picks back up. “ _He’s a right twat._ ”

“Mm, well.” Frances leans her head against her shoulder and curls up a little in her chair. “No one’s surprised.”

“ _Chin up, old girl. At least he can’t make you give those awful introductory lectures anymore._ ”

Frances grins crookedly. “Thank god. If there’s one consolation in all this, it’s that he _is_ making Fitzjames.”

Frances doesn’t have favourite students—well, she does and doesn’t, depending on who asks—but if she did have favourite it’d be difficult to deny that one of them is Jopson.

“I hope you’re not to bored without one of my scintillating naval history lectures,” Frances jokes when Jopson comes to visit her office during the first week of term.

They’ve settled into their usual spot across her desk, hands folded across a pair of blue corduroy trousers. “No one is as entertaining as you, Professor,” Jopson offers slyly, mouth barely twitching. “Though Dr Fitzjames comes the closest.”

Frances reflexively scowls; Jopson certainly notices, if the sudden height of their brow is anything to go by. “I hope she’s as educational as she is entertaining.”

“ _I_ think she is,” Jopson replies. “She’s not you, of course, but she seems pretty decent. And she uses my pronouns properly.”

“You’re in her queer studies course, Jopson. It’d be a travesty if she didn’t.”

Jopson smiles and gives a little shrug. “I think she’s better than that. The reading list is certainly promising.”

“Oh?” Frances asks, bitter curiosity escaping her.

“Well, there’s some Judith Butler and Audre Lorde, and one of Joseph Bristow’s books which I’ve been meaning to read anyway —oh, but our first assignment is _Twelfth Night_ , which promises to be interesting. If only for the fact that everything else on the list is non-fiction.”

Frances jerks forward, eyes narrowing to a squint. “She’s having you read _Shakespeare_? In a queer history class?”

Jopson nods.

Frances slouches back in her chair and rubs a hand across her face. “Fucking literature professors, I swear to Christ, can’t get over their—their _bard on_ even when the course has nothing to do with him.” Goddamn it. Absolutely fucking figures Fitzjames would ruin Frances’ course like that.

“I’m sure she’s got a salient point to make,” Jopson nudges gently.

Frances lifts her head, quirking a sardonic smile. Wouldn’t do for her favourite student to think she’s frustrated with _them_. “And what would that be, Jopson?”

They squirm a little. “Well,” they start. Frances can see the sheepish humour curling up at the edges of their mouth. “It’s only the first week of term, I haven’t heard that lecture yet.”

Frances chuckles and shifts back into her desk chair. “I’m sure if anyone can figure it out it’d be you. Never had an obscure, complicated, barely articulated point you didn’t eventually pick up on.”

Jopson flushes, grinning widely. “I pulled most of my essay on the Discovery Service from Wikipedia,” they say, as if Frances would ever believe that.

Frances hits her desk in mock-vindication. “I knew it,” she grins as someone knocks on her door. “Alright, get your improperly-cited disgrace out of here and let someone else deal with me for a change.”

Jopson collects their things and stands. “I’ll be back in two days to keep your plants alive,” they grin cheekily, then pull the door open.

“I’m two decades older than you,” Frances grouses back.

She can hear Edward’s voice from the hallway, so she smirks a little and turns her chair a bit to the side. Enough to feign some level of privacy while still being able to make out most of their conversation.

Which is, to be honest, mostly Jopson being a touch over-enthusiastically nice while Edward mutters through his terrible awkwardness. Ah, young love.

“You know,” Frances starts once Edward and his quietly flaming face have closed her door and shuffled over to the extra table, “they’re not my student this term so I know you’re not their TA.”

Edward freezes with his binder halfway to the table.

She levels him with a wry look. “I’m saying they’d go out with you in a heartbeat, Edward.”

He drops the binder on the floor.

The lift in the humanities building is notorious amongst anyone who’s ever spent too much time in it. The three walls are papered in a thick stratum of fliers from projects and clubs and capstones past; Frances can still see the remnants of a stick that’d been around when she first showed up. The doors have been spared this treatment, but that only means the decades-old, yellowing white paint is unrestrained in its peeling.

It’s also the slowest lift in the known universe, taking approximately forever to arrive and even longer to get to the right floor. Frances would take the stairs over it without question, and usually does—today, however, she’s wheeling in her usual ten kilo bag of books she hadn’t wanted to leave in her office over the break. Plus a few new additions she hadn’t been able to say no to, naturally.

She’s a history professor—she’s _supposed_ to have too many books.

It’s a bit too heavy of a load to make hauling it up the two fights to her office an enjoyable prospect, so she’s resigned herself to the meandering mechanical climb as the slow but preferable option.

What she hasn’t resigned herself to is Jamie Fitzjames slipping in right as the doors crank closed.

Frances had held the door at the shouted request, though she hadn’t been able to see behind the teetering pile of boxes to tell who it was. Not holding them would’ve meant that whoever it was would have to wait at least ten minutes for the lift to cycle back down again; it’s the decent thing to do, and she doesn’t regret the extra minute of wait. Not until a face pops out from behind the boxes and she realizes she’s stuck spending the next five minutes in a tiny metal box with Jamie Fitzjames.

“Thank you, Frances,” the other woman says a little breathlessly. “Would’ve hated to hold up these Nortons for longer than I have to.”

“Right,” Frances mutters as the lift lurches vaguely upward.

Fitzjames must take that a something like encouragement because she keeps rattling on. “I’ve got a dramaturge friend who swears by the Oxford’s, you know, though I’ve always thought the Arden was a better performing version myself. But for _academia_ , of course, there’s no kill like overkill and there’s certainly no overkill like the Norton. It’s not fully annotated unless you could prop up a cannon with it. Ha! A _literary canon_ , you might say—”

“Are you really teaching Shakespeare in a queer history course?” Frances interrupts, unable to stop herself.

“Oh!” Jamie smiles brightly. “Yes, I am! _Twelfth Night_. I think it lends particularly well toward reading through a queer lens—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frances half mumbles.

Fitzjames blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I—it’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously _something_ , Frances.”

“I’m not going to tell you how to teach a course that’s technically yours,” Frances grits out from behind clenched teeth.

Fitzjames’ brow flies up. “Obviously not for want of an opinion. Do you have a problem with Shakespeare, Frances?”

“No,” Frances grinds out. “I have a problem with you co-opting one of the only chances these students will get to learn about marginalized history in an academic setting just to fawn over the same stodgy old English literature they’ll probably already be reading.”

The words are biting even to her own ears—but that, Frances maintains, doesn’t make them any less true.

“Yes, obviously you aren’t going to tell me how to do my job at all, Frances.” Fitzjames’ already sharp jawline is noticeably tight. The knuckles of her hands are blanching white around the bottom box of her stack.

“ _You fucking_ —you _asked_ ,” Frances hisses. “And stop—saying my name every time you talk like you’re a bloody advertisement for public speaking.”

“My mistake,” Fitzjames says coolly. “In the future I’ll be sure to avoid our common profession as a topic of conversation entirely. And your name, too.”

“Do me a favour, Fitzjames, and let’s avoid any topic of conversation at all.”

“Right.” Fitzjames shuffles her stack around to jab at the control panel with her elbow. “Well. Ta, Frances. Hope I don’t see you soon.”

“It’d be my _pleasure_ ,” Frances glares.

“At least something will be,” Fitzjames spits, and slips out of the lift just as the doors close.

Frances give an aborted yell and jabs at the door open button—but it’s too late and she’s stuck in the lumbering beast until at least the next floor. She glowers at the paint covered doors and imagines clocking Fitzjames over the head with one of her own bloody hardcovers.

“Hmm.”

“What,” Frances asks flatly.

Thomas only shrugs and shakes his head as if to say _nothing at all_. There’s clinking noise like he’s rearranging glasses underneath the countertop.

Frances scowls at him. “Don’t give me that, you _hummed_. You only hum like that when you’ve got something to say.”

“I hum all the time,” Thomas protests. “It’s how I sing since I’m tone fucking deaf.”

“You _are_ tone fucking deaf,” Frances agrees, “and you’re also a shit fucking liar.”

“He’s shit and I’m liar,” Esther inputs as she slides into Thomas’ side. He turns and presses his grin into her hair. “Now why are we insulting my husband this time?”

“He _hummed_ ,” Frances says.

“Oh?” Esther pulls back to face Thomas. “What has she done now?”

“Told the professor she’s a bit mad for that she’s shit at her job.”

“I’m not—!”

“Goodness,” Esther winces. “Well, I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“I did!” Frances hits her hands against the counter. “I _do_.”

They both look at her.

“Very good reasons,” she insists.

Someone else in the pub boos a little too loudly at something Frances can’t make out. Thomas and Esther keep looking at her.

Frances wilts. “I… may have stated those reasons a bit rudely,” she mumbles in concession. “Bet you two probably think I should apologize.”

Esther rest her head on Thomas’ shoulder. Neither of them says anything.

“Fine!” Frances throws her hands up. “I’ll apologize! But I don’t have to like it,” she says, jabbing her finger at the counter.

“That’s very magnanimous of you, Frances,” Esther says solemnly.

“We know how much you hate maintaining professional relationships. And when your colleagues take pride in their work.”

Frances scowls at Thomas. “I’m making an active choice to enjoy your friendship right now.”

“Good!” Thomas says blithely. “Haven’t a clue where else we’d get our entertainment.”

Esther chuckles, then presses a kiss each to Thomas’ check and Frances’ forehead and goes off to another customer.

Thomas leans down, bracing his arms against the counter. “Seriously though, Fran, you deserve better than for some twat to go whingeing to Franklin and getting you in trouble.”

“More than I always am?” She sighs, rubbing a hand across her face. “You’re right. Well, at least I’ll have the moral superiority.”

“That’s the spirt,” he says, pushing up from the counter. “Now, we’ve got a new dish for you to try. On the house for letting us be your agony aunts.”

Frances grins lopsidedly as he goes stomping off to fetch it from the kitchen.

She _is_ going to apologize to Fitzjames the next day, but like hell if Frances is going to do it first thing in the morning. She’s not nearly awake enough that that—and the more time for each of them to forget the other’s exact wording, the better.

She’ll go in the afternoon. No shame in that plan.

Except apparently Fitzjames wants to fuck her over in every possible way, because she knocks on Frances’ door well before noon.

Frances lets her in and braces herself for another argument—god, or a warning that Fitzjames is planning on taking this tiff up to Franklin. She leans against the front of her desk and folds her arms in front of her while Fitzjames fidgets with her cuffs.

Fitzjames looks, more than anything else, _awkward_. Like all that blithering over-confidence has been completely sapped. It makes her seem far too young; for a brief, horrifying moment Frances is hit with a flash of what Fitzjames must have been like in her graduate student days.

It doesn’t exactly bolster her desire for vindication.

Frances tightens her arms across her chest. “Can I help you, Fitzjames?”

Fitzjames clears her throat. “Yes, well, I’m here because I want to apologise, Fra—erm. What I said to you yesterday was deeply unprofessional and I’m sorry for it. Won’t happen again—”

“ _I_ was going to apologise,” Frances blurts out. Her arms drop to her sides, bracing against the edge of her desk. No no no, bugger Fitzjames for coming over first—“That is, _my_ comments were out of line. Erm.”

Fitzjames looks startled. “Oh, well, ah, good! That’s good then. That we both want to…” she trails off and gestures limply between them.

“Right,” Frances croaks. “Of course. ‘S good.”

“Alright then!” Fitzjames awkwardly clasps her hands together. “I’ll just… leave you to it. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your naval history lecture. I hear it’s a good one!”

It’s a pitiful excuse; her lecture isn’t for another half hour at least. Frances is desperately grateful for it. She winces out something like a laugh and watches Fitzjames run into the door on her way out.

“You’re upset because she apologised first.”

Frances slumps down toward the counter. “Get your functioning adult judgement out of my face, Thomas. I’m trying to drown myself.”

“So you _do_ want a refill, then?”

“Yes,” Frances mutters into her hands. Thomas—curse and bless him in equal turns—gives her an extra side of chips along with her water.

She’s possibly being a touch over-dramatic, but Christ almighty, leave it to Jamie Fitzjames to thwart Frances’ plan to bloody well _say sorry_. She’d barely managed to stammer it out, in the end, and now Fitzjames no doubt thinks she wouldn’t have done it at all if she hadn’t been put on the spot.

“Is Fran complaining about the woman she thinks she hates?”

“Oi!” Frances jerks up from her hands to see Esther leaning on the counter, looking bemusedly over at her.

Thomas snorts and gets an elbow down on the dark wood as well. “Isn’t she always? I keep expecting to hear about her pulling the pigtail of the girl she fancies.”

“I do not _fancy_ her, I don’t even like her!” Frances flings her hands up, face heating. “And she’s got a bob!”

Thomas and Esther share a sceptical glance. Frances makes a noise of protest.

“Why do we hate her, again?” Esther asks, turning back toward Frances and pushing up to sit on the counter after a quick glance at the mostly empty pub. “I don’t think I’ve heard the full story yet.”

Frances opens her mouth, fully prepared to launch into a tirade—but something stops her, and she stalls out into a sigh. Christ, the more she thinks about it the more it seems like the most misplaced grievance she could nurture.

It _feels_ like Fitzjames just showed up and kept waltzing into all of Frances’ careful plans with a smile and a sense of entitlement. But Frances hadn’t known the interpersonal politics of the college when she had first shown up, and she can’t rightly expect Fitzjames to have known them either. Even if the other woman _had_ , there’s little doubt how her strolling into Frances’ office and saying, ‘ _say, I’ve noticed that you’re the Dean’s least favourite underling, probably because you’re a gay Irish woman, and I’ve decided to throw my public school trimmed hat into the ring for you. No no, don’t thank me, I’m only doing what’s obviously The Right Thing_.’

Probably would’ve pissed her off even more.

It isn’t Fitzjames’ fault, exactly, that Franklin and academia and the world like her better, but… it’s still so, so demoralizing. Maybe Frances shouldn’t be frustrated with Fitzjames so much as the society they live in, but she’s been fighting against the world for the right to exist since she was bloody _born_ and for once she just wanted a fight she could win.

Fitzjames hadn’t really wanted a fight until Frances started one, though, had she?

She’s all for letting past experience guide gut instincts—it’s always best to suss out the people who think you’re less than human before you let your guard down—but she might’ve let that instinct linger a little longer than really justified. She wasn’t required to _like_ Fitzjames, but it wasn’t like the other woman wanted her dead. She probably deserved a modicum of politeness.

Frances buries her face in her hands and resists the urge the scream. “I may possibly—” she mutters into her palms “—have been a slight bit of an asshole.”

There’s a slight scuffle on the other side of the counter and then Esther says, “One case of bad intuition doesn’t make you an awful person. You’re a decent asshole at heart.”

“At least you already apologised,” Thomas offers. “Saves the effort of doing it again.”

“Yeah,” Frances sighs, rubbing her face and looking back up at them. “You know, when I was twenty I thought I’d have everything figured out by now.”

Esther grins wryly. “Ah, the misguided confidence of youth.”

“I didn’t even have a dick at twenty,” Thomas says blandly. “Didn’t get my first packer until two whole months after twenty-one.”

Esther smacks a kiss to the side of his face and laughs. “I had that blunt fringe until twenty- _three_. Thought I looked so sophisticated.”

Thomas hoists the glass he’s been cleaning and says, “To the idiots we were, are, and will continue to be.”

Frances grins and taps her water glass against his with a resounding _clink_.

Esther pushes an umbrella on her— _honestly Frances, it’s pissing outside, don’t try and pretend you’ve got one hidden away in that jacket_ —so Frances makes it onto the sidewalk without being totally drenched.

The walk from the Blankys’ bar is grimy and familiar—the patter of rain against an umbrella even more so. Frances knows this walk like she knows her own front hall; hop the curb there, swerve around a puddle here, emanate a steady aura of _do not fuck with me_ so everyone moves out of her way. This, more often than not, is her nightly routine.

It’s either sit a home with her pets or sit at the Blankys’ and actually spend time with her friends. Even for Frances that’s not so difficult a decision.

The street is lit and the night is fairly young, so she isn’t paying too much attention to the people around her as she walks along. She’s on a trendier street now, one with modern restaurants and dimly-lit clubs; she’d usually avoid it due to the likelihood of running into a student here, but it’s early in the term and she wants to get home before the rain gets any worse. She keeps her head and shoulders tucked under the umbrella and tries not to step on any of the soaked-through shoes streaming around her.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!”

That sounds oddly familiar.

Frances stops and tilts the umbrella up. Standing in front of her, glaring down at her smartphone like it dared call Jane Austen frivolously girly, is Jamie Fitzjames.

They’re in front of one of those clubs Frances wouldn’t step foot in— _Carnival_ , it seems to be called, how utterly pretentious—and it’s clear that Fitzjames has just come out of it. She’s in a shimmering little dress with not-quite-towering heels, and her long legs are bare, drizzled with rainwater and almost glowing in the streetlights—er, she must be cold, is what Frances means. What with not having a jacket.

Chilly night, it was. That’s why Frances feels so flushed.

“Absolutely bloody typical,” the other woman mutters.

Frances clears her throat. “You alright, Fitzjames?”

Brown eyes rimmed with slightly smudged makeup snap whip up to meet her own. Frances holds up her spare hand up placatingly as Jamie’s startled wariness turns to recognition.

“Frances,” she says. “Er—hello.”

“Hello,” Frances nods.

“I was just—” Fitzjames half-jerks back toward the club behind them. “Sorry, didn’t mean to block the way.” She shuffles closer to the curb. Frances has a sudden vision of Fitzjames stumbling over and—and Frances catching her with an arm around her waist.

She shakes her head a little. Lunacy, that is. Anyway, Fitzjames looks impressively sturdy.

Frances thinks about mumbling a goodbye and walking on. She clears her throat instead. “Everything alright?”

“I—” Fitzjames starts, then sighs. “A group of my students showed up inside.” She smiles with feigned cheer. “Couldn’t stay after that, so now I’m failing at flagging a taxi _and_ getting enough signal to make a phone call.” She waves her phone with a sharp motion, then winces and pulls it back against her body to cradle it from the rain.

Frances shifts on her feet. “Oh?”

“I know, I know, but it’s the first week of term. I thought they’d at least wait until Friday,” she gripes wryly, then shakes her head. “Should have known that wouldn’t stop them.”

Frances huffs with token agreement and stares down at their feet. No doubt Fitzjames’ heels are even worse off than Frances’ boots right now. And she hasn’t even got an umbrella, unless she’s hiding it somewhere particularly clever.

Oh, Christ. Of course she had to think about getting home quickly. Ought to have known better than to tempt fate. But Fitzjames is alone, in the dark and rain, and likely slightly tipsy; Frances does the only decent thing.

“I’ll walk with you,” she offers, taking a step closer. “We can share the umbrella.”

Fitzjames hesitates for a moment, rain dripping from her still perfectly dishevelled hair, then nods. Frances shuffles closer and lifts the umbrella up for Fitzjames to tuck herself underneath.

“Here, let me hold it,” she says, wrapping her hand around the handle, two of her fingers curling over Frances’ own. “For height reason, at least.”

Her hand is warm where is covers Frances’. She nods silently and lets go.

Frances can feel Fitzjames’ little shivers as they walk silently along the next block. She bites her lower lip, thinking. She’s got a sturdy few layers on under her jacket—she won’t freeze, especially with the umbrella to keep her mostly dry.

Frances shrugs out of her leather jacket before she can second guess herself and holds it out to Fitzjames. Here,” she says.

“I—” Fitzjames stutters. “No, I couldn’t—I don’t—”

“No, really,” Frances cuts her off and holds out again. “You need it more than I do. It’s really fine.”

Jamie blinks at her, eyes large and dark in the streetlights, then gives a little nod. Frances hold the umbrella while Jamie pulls her jacket on and hand it back when she’s done. The leather jacket is already big on Frances so Jamie is nearly swimming in it, though the sleeves are still short enough that Frances can see the jut of Jamie’s wrists. Still, it’s got to be better than nothing.

They walk in silence for another few blocks before Jamie says, “Thank you for this. I truly appreciate it.”

She’s close enough that Frances can catch a trace of woodsmoke and citrus over the pressing scent of the rain. It’s not—it’s not a bad smell.

She coughs and forces herself to sound nonchalant. “It’s no problem.”

Jamie grins wryly and ducks her head. “I know I’m not your favourite person, Frances, you don’t need to be so polite about it.”

They turn a corner, the noise of the street behind them fading into a quieter hum. The streetlamps cause the gathering puddles of water to glimmer as new raindrops splash into them.

Yesterday—earlier tonight, even—Frances had wanted the moral superiority in this argument because she hadn’t thought she could scrape out anything closer to a victory. Now, in the dark streets of a city she has begrudgingly come to love, made beautiful by lamplight and rain, feeling the warm line of Jamie’s arm pressed against her even through Frances’ own jacket, she just wants to be kind.

“Well,” she gives a little half shrug, looking more at the ground than Jamie, “ask any of our colleagues and they’ll tell you that I have shit taste.”

Jamie makes a soft sound of surprise, then gives a little snicker. Frances grins into her own shoulder, gaze flickering up to Jamie’s face. “It’s been pointed out to me that most of my… _dislike_ was actually misdirected anger of the fact that Franklin gave you the lecture I’ve been pitching for years.” They turn another corner onto a street full of flats and Frances clears her throat. “So at the very least I can own up to that.”

Jamie slows, taking the umbrella with her. Frances has to dart backward to avoid getting rain on her face. “You’d been pitching—for years? Frances, I—I had no idea.”

Frances shrugs again. “Yes, well. Suppose he was alright with someone teaching queer studies when that someone looked more like you than me.”

Jamie makes a quiet, wounded sort of noise before simply saying, “Oh.”

Frances starts walking again and Jamie follows after, silent. “It’s good you got it, though,” Frances says after a momentary pause. “It needs to be taught, even if it’s not by me.”

She glances over—Jamie’s normally cheery face looks desperately lost in the dim light. “I thought…”

Frances looks away when the look of mourning in her eyes becomes distinctly uncomfortable. “To be fair,” she starts, blurting it out like desprate truth it is, “he also doesn’t like me because I’m the butch Irish dyke who tried to marry his niece.”

Jamie gapes at her, face slack with shock. Frances just grins unflinchingly until Jamie’s surprise gives way to hopeless laughter.

Frances chuckles with her and Jamie smiles around the hand she’s holding to her mouth. She hiccoughs a little, then pulls her hand down and says, “Oh my god, he’s a misogynist _and_ a homophobe.”

Frances nods, failing to stifle her desperate little laugh. “It’s honestly—” she takes a breath, still giggling. “It’s honestly a miracle he approved it in the first place. You must be very convincing.”

“I just—” Jamie throws her free hand up and shakes her head. “I just _asked!_ ”

Frances lets out an incredulous little _augh!_ “I’ve been asking for _three years!_ ”

“Well, you must’ve laid the groundwork, then. Warmed him up to it.”

“Eugh,” Frances makes a face. “Not likely. More he just couldn’t let the opportunity to spite me pass by.”

Jamie’s lopsided smile drops from her face. “Oh, no. No, you’re probably right, that’s _awful_.”

“That’s John Franklin.”

Jamie looks at her, face pinched. “I’m so sorry Frances. You should be teaching it, not me.”

Frances bumps their shoulders together; the note of sadness in Jamie’s voice goes twisting through her stomach. “It’s alright,” she says. “Well, it’s—what it is, but it isn’t your fault.”

It never had been, really.

Jamie smiles sadly down at her and bumps them together again. “Still,” she says, and Frances can tell she understands.

They walk a few more blocks until Jamie says, “This is me,” and they slow to a halt. She hands the umbrella back and stoops a little to stay under it; at the same time, Frances tilts her head up to look at Jamie, and suddenly the rain isn’t very cold at all.

Jamie’s undeniably beautiful, and really quite clever, and possibly even _kind_ —and she’s right here, looking at Frances like she might be thinking the same things about _her_. They’re breathing the same chill air and Frances feels so _warm_ and she can’t even think, she just tilts her face a little further and leans a little forward and—

A miniature waterfall pours down on Jamie’s head.

“Shit,” Frances swears, stumbling back from Jamie, righting the umbrella and shoving it forward until she’s half in the rain and wholly panicked. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Jamie giggles, high and somehow throaty. Frances clams up. “I’m already soaked, it’s no bother.” Jamie’s hands drop from where they were halfway raised and flutter at her sides. She makes a noise like she can’t decide whether to cough or clear her throat or laugh, then gestures behind her. “My building’s basically three steps away, so. It’s all fine.”

“Oh,” Frances says, feeling oddly morose despite her still-racing heart. She shakes it off as best she can. “Well. I’ll see you around, then?”

Jamie opens her mouth then closes it, nodding jerkily. “I—yes. Yes, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.”

“Right,” Frances says, shoving her free hand into her pocket and biting the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in England before, but you might want to invest in an umbrella. It can get a bit damp.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jamie says, but she’s smiling. Frances flushes and smiles back—and stays like that for most of her walk home.

Jamie comes to her office the next day. Frances straightens up in her chair when she comes in and has to fight to keep herself from grinning. It’s a far cry more welcome than the last time Jamie had been here—Christ, only a day ago.

“I’ve still got your jacket,” James says, sitting down on the other side of Frances’ desk, “but I’m a right idiot and I’ve forgotten it at home.”

“Oh,” Frances says, “well that’s alright—”

Jamie holds up her hands. “I’d go and fetch it, but I’ve got something right after my last lecture lets out, which, I wouldn’t go but I’ve already paid the fee and—”

“Jamie,” Frances says. “It’s alright. You can just bring it next week.”

“Oh,” Jamie blinks. “Yes, I could. Erm, but I was thinking—if you didn’t mind coming by mine at, er, twenty past five or so, then I could give it to you before that cold front hits this weekend. So you won’t be without a jacket.”

Frances owns other jackets. Warmer ones, even. She says yes anyway.

“Excellent!” Jamie beams. “I’ll write the address down—oh, and my flat number, of course. There’s an intercom so I can buzz you up when you get there.” She scribbles on a post-it and slides it back across Frances’ desk, then hops up and makes to leave. She gets as far as a hand on the doorknob before turning back and smiling again. “Thank you for being so flexible, Frances”

Frances just flushes bright red and nods.

She slips into the building after someone leaves and reaches Jamie’s door at ten-past exactly, without, presumably, Jamie knowing she’s there. Frances spends about two minutes privately considering walking around the floor again so she won’t look over eager, then huffs and tells herself _you’re an adult not a fifteen-year-old_ and knocks on the door.

A thump echoes through the wall. Then—a dozen second stretch later—the door swings open, Jamie flushed and grinning behind it.

“Frances! You’re here!”

“I—yes?” Jamie’s dressed like she’s just come in from a run; clad in a loose top—purple and white—and a pair of shorts, with adorably tiny pigtails holding back the top half of her hair. Frances swallows and tries not the choke. “Is this a bad time?”

“No!” Jamie shakes her head, opening the door further and ushering Frances inside. “Just let me—I’ve only just gotten back from yoga, sorry, just let me put something else on.” She disappears through a doorway at the end of the hall, calling back, “Oh, and don’t mind the cat, she can be a prim little miss.”

Frances looks around. There’s no cat in sight.

There’s a coat rack just in front of her, filled to bursting with different coats and jackets on a mix of pegs and hangers. Frances sort of recognizes the buttery red leather jacket on a wooden hanger at the end closest to her. It’s far sleeker than her beaten-up, indestructible old thing from the late nineties.

There’s a spider plant and a clock hanging by the archway up to her left; a framed poster of a cheetah, oddly enough, hanging by the door Jamie didn’t go into; and a bright little window above a baby-blue painted radiator all the way at the end of the hall.

The front hall in Frances’ house has a pile of shoes in one corner and a stack of mail in another; she likes the bits of décor she’s stuck up over the years, but there’s certainly no framed close-up of a cheetah.

A black blur shoots out from the archway with the spider plant, skidding to a halt just before Frances’ shins. Once still enough to be properly observed, the blur resolves itself into a cat with glossy black fur and big green eyes, staring pointedly up at Frances. The cat twines itself around her lower legs, uttering a single, delicate, “Mrow?”

Frances leans down, scratching a finger down the side of the cat’s head. “Aren’t you gorgeous?” she murmurs, cooing softly.

Jamie makes a surprised sound down the hallway. Frances straightens up hastily and blinks at her let-down hair and sweater. “I meant the cat—” she starts at the same time as Jamie’s, “She really likes you—”

They both cut off at once; then Jamie giggles and Frances can’t help but smile.

“She’s usually quite standoff-ish, really. It took her weeks to warm up to Dundy and he’s been around since she was a kitten.” Jamie leans down and picks up the cat when it slinks over to her. “I suppose Erebus must really like you.”

“Sorry?”

Jamie flushes delicately. “Erebus,” she says, shifting the cat up. “Spirit of darkness and all that.”

Erebus meows primly.

“I’ve got your jacket in the back, if you’ll come in for a bit?” Jamie smiles welcomingly; Frances finds herself nodding.

She follows Jamie into a brightly decorated living area. A row of leafy plants lines the edges of the living room-kitchen hybrid in cheerful green; framed photographs, most with Jamie in them although one _also_ has that cheetah, hang interspersed with pencil sketches; the familiar figure of a scratching post stands tall between two windows. In the middle is a blue and white patterned couch with more throw pillows than Frances thinks strictly reasonable.

“Do you have any cats?”

Frances jolts back to the present. Jamie is leaning against a table, looking back at her, cat gone. “Sorry?”

“I mean, I’ve heard about the dog,” Jamie continues, tugging at the overlong sleeves of her white sweater, “but I thought—well, she likes you so much I thought maybe you…”

“Oh,” Frances says, understanding. “Er, yes. One.”

“What’s their name?”

Frances bites her lip, feeling more sheepish than she usually does when answering this question. “Well, she must’ve had a real one once but I, erm, I usually just refer to her as _the terror_.”

Jamie laughs, warm and happy. “Darkness and Terror. I bet they’d love each other.” Frances grins crookedly.

Jamie pushes up from the table and moves into the slightly cluttered kitchen area. “Would you like anything to drink? Eat? I was just about to start dinner—you wouldn’t happen to know anything about making gnocchi, would you?”

“Not much,” Frances admits, moving unconsciously closer. “I think I saw someone do it once—must’ve been a decade ago, though.”

“Well that’s more than me. I’ve enough for another person if you’re willing to stick around and be my sous chef?”

_Cook dinner with me_ , Jamie is asking. _Come into my home and make something with me,_ Frances can’t help but hear.

“Are you sure?” Frances asks, vestigial politeness forcing its way through a feeling of vulnerability.

“Quite sure. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

Frances scans the plane of Jamie’s face and finds nothing but sincerity. “Alright,” she says, and sets her bag down.

“So there I am, trying to figure out how to tell Dean John Franklin—who look utterly enthused by his misconception—that _actually_ , my field of expertise is in gothic _literature_.” Jamie punctuates the end of her story with a swirl of her fork in the air.

Frances grins, laughing into her plate of slightly irregular pear and stilton gnocchi. “He doesn’t take well to being corrected.”

Jamie catches her eye and smirks. “No, obviously not.” She shakes her head with a half-bitten smile. “I’m still not sure I convinced him.”

There’s a little bit of flour on Jamie’s check from when she had started mixing a little overzealously. It’s a smudge of white against her skin—Frances has started having difficulty looking away from it.

“You have a…” she taps the side of her own face after a pause in conversation.

Jamie tilts her head. “Sorry?”

“On your—hold on.” Frances braces an arm on the table and leans across, hand outstretched, to brush the flour away. Jamie’s eyes watch her move, very wide and very brown.

Frances could kiss her.

Oh, _that’s_ it. Everything rearranges itself a little in her brain—god, of _course_. Forty odd years old and you’d think she’d know herself better. No wonder she had had such a visceral reaction despite the lack of any maliciousness on Jamie’s part. Frances bloody well _likes_ her.

Frances could kiss her, and Frances _wants_ to kiss her, and Jamie is looking at her like maybe she wants that back; and Frances is already halfway across the table anyway, if she just leaned over a little more, slowly, to give Jamie a chance to pull away, then maybe—

The front door slams shut. Frances jerks back, movement incomplete, and curls her arm back to her side. Jamie gives a startled little gasp, furrows her brow, and looks behind Frances toward the archway.

“Dundy,” she says. “You’re here. Right now!”

Frances twists around. Standing just inside the room is a man around Jamie’s age with wavy silver hair and a bemused expression. “Fitz,” he replies. “I live here! Still!”

“To my frequent consternation,” she says flatly. “Frances—Dundy, this is Frances Crozier. From the uni where I teach.” She waves between the two of them. “Frances, this is Dundy.”

“I have an actual name, don’t let her fool you.” The man moves closer and holds out a hand. Frances shakes it perfunctorily. “Henry. Nice to me you, Frances.”

“And you,” she responds, shooting a quick glance back at Jamie. The other woman seems oddly disconsolate, but she smiles quickly when she notices Frances looking.

“Well, it smells absolutely delicious in here—Frances, don’t tell me you’ve finally taught Fitz to cook?”

“Bugger off, Dundy, it’s not for you.”

Henry pouts in Jamie’s direction. Frances looks back and forth between his pleading and her unimpressed façade until Jamie breaks, cracking a grin and rolling her eyes. “Just a bite, then, you incorrigible glutton.” She spears a bit of gnocchi on her fork and holds it up for Henry, who walks around the table and cheerfully bends down to bite it off.

Something like embarrassed realization flares up in Frances’ mind.

“You can have the rest of mine,” she says, making a bit of a show of looking at her watch. “I’d best be going. Have to walk the dog and all that.” She pushes up from the table and walks over to pick up her bag.

“Wait, but—” Jamie stands up. “Surely you can finish your meal.”

Frances waves a hand. “I’m fine, thanks. Was a good recipe, though.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder and forces a smile. “Nice to meet you, thanks for having me,” she says, nodding at Henry and Jamie, who are watching her with mild confusion and sad bewilderment respectively. “I’ll see you around, Jamie, or—”

“But your jacket!” Jamie interrupts, one arm darting out as if to stop Frances in place. “You haven’t taken it back yet!”

“Right,” Frances starts, “well—"

“I’ll get it for you,” Jamie offers. “Just—stay here.”

“I—alright.”

Jamie nods, then leaves the room. Frances turns to follow her, planning to wait in the hall, when Henry speaks.

“It was lovely meeting you, Frances. I feel like I’ve heard so much about you.” He pauses. “All good things, of course.”

“Of course,” Frances echoes.

She takes her jacket back from Jamie, makes her goodbyes, and pushes out of the door as fast as she can. Right now, she wants very much to be home.

Frances doesn’t avoid Jamie for the next week because that would be unprofessional and childish; they just don’t happen to see each other, is all. It’s not as if they regularly run into each other—the English and history department offices are on opposite ends of the building and they certainly don’t have overlapping schedules. That Frances has been taking the long way out of the building, the way that doesn’t require her to pass by the hall with Jamie office, is purely coincidental. She’s just trying to walk more.

And, in any case, even if she _were_ trying to avoid Jamie—which she isn’t—it’s not like it would have _worked_. Not when the woman herself shows up at Frances’ office.

It’s a lazy Thursday afternoon—Frances doesn’t have any lectures and for once Dean Franklin is leaving her alone—when Jamie knocks on her office door.

She’s chatting with Jopson over historical errata while Edward marks papers in the back corner. Or at least pretends to mark them, while actually spending the whole time mooning over Jopson, who—Frances can’t help but note—lights up whenever her TA makes a quiet addition to their conversation. Frances doesn’t really mind that Edward isn’t exactly focused; he’ll get the work done—would probably rather cut off his own foot than risk falling slack—and she’s rather fond of the both of them and happily content to watch them dance around each other in her lopsided, sunlit little office.

This little set up is the scene that Jamie walks into when Frances calls out for whoever’s knocking to come in.

“Frances, I—” Jamie cuts herself off. “Well, it’s a veritable party in here. Hello Edward, Jopson. I love the headband.”

Jopson beams. “Thank you. I though it went well with this shirt.”

“It absolutely does,” Jamie grins, closing the door and moving to lean on the corner of Frances’ desk. “Are we up to anything exciting in here?”

“Trying to get work done,” Frances responds dryly, raising an eyebrow and making an attempt to suppress the flush of nervousness rising in her, “unlike some of my colleagues.”

“I have a perfectly work-related reason to be here, thank you very much. Though I do hope you’re not making Jopson work for you, Frances. I know how you feel about unpaid labour.”

Frances rolls her eyes. “What do you want, Jamie?”

Jamie settles down into the spare chair, shakes her hair back from her face, and touches a hand to her chest. “I seek a boon, my liege.”

Frances stifles a grin. “A boon? By what right?”

“By right of interdepartmental cooperation,” Jamie announces, drooping her hand back to her lap. “Also, I think you’ll like it.”

“Oh?”

Jamie leans forward in the chair, happily smug. “Edward, you’re in Frances’ graduate seminar, aren’t you?”

Frances turns to look back at Edward, frozen with his pen held aloft, looking startled at the address. “I… am,” he says, eyes darting between them.

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic,” Frances deadpans.

“And tell me, Edward—what’s the objective of the course?”

Oh, too cruel. Frances glances at Jamie, who catches her gaze with a smirk and a minute shrug.

Edward opens his mouth, pauses, then slowly starts to say, “To… conduct a comprehensive study on an aspect of modern history with a focus on the locating and importance of primary sources.” He swallows. “Er—more or less.”

“Well put,” Jamie nods, saving the poor man from the trap she pushed him into. “Even better than the catalogue description.”

Frances quirks a brow. “Is this going somewhere?”

Jamie leans forward, resting an arm on the edge of Frances’ desk. “Teach a joint lecture with me. An hour and a half on the importance of primary sources in LGBTQ cultural history. We’re at the same time, in the same building—it wouldn’t be too much of an annoyance to arrange.”

“Oh,” Frances exhales. “I—that’s actually quite a good idea.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, now,” Jamie drawls, but her smile is soft and uncertain.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Jopson chimes in, shooting a pointed look over Frances’ shoulder. “Doesn’t it, Edward?”

“Yes,” he replies quickly. “It does.”

“See? Both of our students agree with me—and really, isn’t it all for them? And their education?”

“You needn’t try and convince me,” Frances says flatly, still internally reeling. “I’m going to agree.”

Jamie smiles, beautiful and glowing and clever enough to give Frances a little bit of her history back. The sun through the window is mid-afternoon golden and Frances can see little flecks of it glimmering in her eyes. They’re close enough that Frances can make out the individual lashes fanning across Jamie’s cheek, and she—she wants—

_Bang!_

Frances snaps around to see Edward looking horrified at a heavy binder fallen open on the floor. Jopson makes a distraught sort of sound behind her; Frances turns back around as Edward is scrambling for his papers, belatedly realizing just how far across her desk she and Jamie had been leaning.

She presses herself in the back of her chair and shoves her suddenly nervous hands flat against the arm rests.

“Right,” Jamie says, clearing her throat. “Well, I was thinking sometime after this month, though of course you have your own schedule…”

They settle on the last week of term, when Jamie’s students will have the full context and Frances’ will be grateful for the change of pace. They spend the time until then planning—a little overly much, if Frances is being completely honest. In her defence, though, she’s trying to fit a term worth of intent into a single lecture. And anyway, Jamie doesn’t seem to mind.

There’s just—

Frances might’ve lost her last girlfriend after proposing too many times—though really that had only been a minor issue in what turned out to be a list of them—but that doesn’t mean she’s completely lost when it comes to matters of the heart. Her own heart, at least.

So Frances is aware that she’s developing a bit of a soft spot for Jamie. She knows it when a message ping from Jamie makes her mouth quirk up, she knows it when passing the hall to Jamie’s office makes her feel like lingering too long, she knows it when every brush of Jamie’s casual tactility feels like an open flame Frances never wants to recoil from.

It’s not a wholly productive feeling to have for someone who’s clearly in a relationship. And a serious one at that, since they’re living together.

But Frances is—as the increasingly ironic birthday cards Thomas keeps gifting remind her—a fully-grown adult. She’s perfectly capable of having a professional, friendly relationship with someone who has no hope of returning her feelings. Maybe she can’t quite get rid of the pang in her chest, but she can set them to simmer in the background and focus on the friendship that she’s honestly happy to have.

Frances had nearly barred herself from this entirely—every companionable hour they spend together is an order of magnitude better than the bitter rivalry Frances almost doomed them to.

One evening after their lesson planning they accidentally-on-purpose end up bickering their way to the Blankys’ for a bite and a pint—in Jamie’s case, though she’s polite enough not to mention when Frances orders water with her spaghetti bolognaise. The accident becomes a pattern until every few days or so they end up spread across a four-person table, debating the merits of 19th century romanticism and filching each other’s chips, Jamie’s Pellegrino the hardest thing on the table.

One of these nights, when October is ripening around them, Jamie folds her hands on their now-usual table and asks, voice neutral but curious, “Were you and John always so at odds?”

Frances takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But I thought I’d ask for the other side of the story now that I have the chance.” Jamie seems honestly curious, and as much as this history frustrates Frances to bitterness, she wants to share.

“I briefly considered him a mentor, actually,” she says after a pause, watching the condensation on her glass pool onto its napkin. “Of a sort.”

Jamie doesn’t say anything, just waits while Frances takes a drink and continues.

“I met John Franklin when I was only a few years into teaching and _he_ was the head of the history department. He was… happy to be flattered, and I was mostly happy to take advantage of that.”

Jamie shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

“But then Sophia and I started seeing each other—and managed to stay together for a lot longer than I think he would have liked.”

James nods and picks up a leftover chip from her plate. “Was it because of the gay thing, do you think?” she asks, voice low and careful.

Frances grins wryly. “I was never really certain. Eventually I decided it was more that he just didn’t like me, though how right I was is up for debate.” She rubs her thumb against her pointer finger, thinking. “Whatever it was, I never could go back to honestly respecting him after that.”

Frances looks back up and nearly startles at the intensity of Jamie’s gaze. “You might be one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, Frances Crozier.”

Frances’ face flushes flamingly hot. “I—I don’t know about that,” she mumbles. “Wasn’t strong enough to leave, or anything. Just stood here and took it.”

Jamie shrugs and smiles slightly. “I still think that’s strength. You didn’t give up on yourself—on what mattered to you just because someone with influence was standing in your way.”

There isn’t much Frances can do with that except smile bashfully and wonder about it later.

The night before their joint lecture finds them again at the Blankys’, squished together on one side of their table and poring over the screen of Jamie’s laptop.

Jamie pushes back from the table and huffs a breath. “Right, well. I think that’s about as prepared as we’re going to get.”

Frances double-taps the save button one last time and leans back, shifting in her seat to look at Jamie. She swallows, and says, “Jamie, I—thank you.” She gestures vaguely at the laptop. “For this.”

Jamie blinks at her, shaking her head a little. “It was the only decent thing to _do_. Frances, I—you know,” she says, straightening up, “When John—when Dean Franklin first told the name of the lecture, I asked if we could change it. ‘ _Gay and Lesbian Studies’_ ,” she says a little vehemently, “as if those are the only two non-heterosexual cisgender things one could possibly be in the whole of human experience.” She huffs, sounding rueful.

“And he said _no_ , of course, and I just… _smiled_ and _let it go_. And now that’s going to be the name for at least as long as he’s still in charge. Maybe the next Dean, whoever they are, will give the go ahead to change it, but until then…” She takes a deep breath. “ _Until then_ , there’s still a chance that any transgender or asexual or nonbinary or—or bisexual student who looks at that name will think it’s just another place they aren’t really wanted. All because I was too afraid to stand up for something important.” She shakes her head. “God, no wonder you found me utterly infuriating.”

Jamie is shredding her napkin to pieces—something she does often enough—but it’s anxious and frantic, so Frances gently rests her hand atop Jamie’s fidgeting ones. Jamie shoots her a thankful little smile. “You know, Frances, I was _ecstatic_ when you agreed to do a joint lecture. I know we’re all here for the pure academia of things, but it’s—it’s so important to show these kids that… a lot of people aren’t going to _care_! That people they _know_ , people they _admire_ , won’t think less of them just because they’re queer. That they’re a part of a community even if they don’t know it yet. So really, thank _you_ for this, Frances.” She turns a hand over and squeezes Frances’. “Thank you so much.”

She—oh, she hadn’t even _imagined_. Frances had eventually figured out that Jamie cared about the subject—it was hard to miss when planning a lesson with her—but she hadn’t quite realized just _how much_. How much passion and care and love Jamie put into something that—that Frances cared for too.

And she though _Frances_ was the one would be doing her a favour.

“God,” Frances finally chokes out after a minute of resonating silence, sniffing a little. “You’re going to make me cry.”

Jamie laughs, sounding damp as well, and smiles. “Well, I’d offer you a napkin to wipe your tears, but…” She glances down at the shredded pile in front of her.

Frances giggles. “That’s alright,” she says, and rubs at her face for a moment. “It’s all alright.”

Their conversation drifts back to lighter matters, and they’re thirty minutes into an argument about whether Franny Price’s brother counts as an accurate representation of a regency era naval officer when Jamie’s phone buzzes against the table and starts playing the Imperial March.

Frances quirks an amused eyebrow across the table, but Jamie is only staring down at her phone, mouth flat and pale. Frances’ amusement drops away and she’s about to ask if everything’s alright when Jamie says, “I should probably take this.”

She doesn’t. Not until sighing, forcing a wan smile at Frances, and pushing away from their table. Frances catches the beginnings of _what do you want_ before the pub door swings shut behind her.

She turns back toward the table and takes a sip of water. They’ve both already finished off most of their food and pushed the empty plates off to the side; Jamie’s neat little pile of napkin shreds stands off to the side of her laptop.

“Have you slept with her yet?”

“Thomas!” Frances hisses, darting a look back to make sure Jamie’s still outside. “Don’t fucking _say_ that, Jesus Christ!”

He drops down into a seat across from her, setting a pitcher of water on the table between them. Frances downs the rest of her glass and pours herself a refill. “Well, have you?”

“She’s my _colleague_ , Thomas.”

“And? So was Sophia.”

“Yes, and we all know how well that worked out.” Frances scrubs her hands across her face. “She’s my colleague and my _friend_. And she has a boyfriend. She’s straight!”

Thomas makes an unconvinced face.

“I’m not looking to be someone’s freebie lesbian, Thomas!”

That finally gets a different response. “Frances,” Thomas frowns, “that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry if it seemed like it.”

She sighs and folds her arms across her chest. “Just—leave it alone, would you?”

He nods. “Alright. But—she does seem genuinely fond of you, for what it’s worth.”

“She’s a good friend.” She smiles wryly up at him. “Just like you, usually.”

He waves a finger at her, smiling. “You’re a clever one when you want to be, Professor.”

Thomas stands up, tops off her glass with an unnecessary trickle of water just to mess with her, and wanders off to go tend to his actual job.

Frances is leaning over, trying to sip off the extra bit of water so she won’t spill it, when Jamie comes back, sliding down across from her. Frances hastily sits up and wipes her mouth. Thankfully Jamie hasn’t seemed to notice her ungainliness; she’s too busy setting her phone face-down on the table and picking up a larger piece from the napkin pile to shred into even tinier bits.

Frances hesitates for a moment, then asks, “Is everything alright?”

Jamie looks up from her napkin massacre and winces. “Sorry—sorry about that. Everything’s fine.”

Like hell it is. “Okay,” Frances says instead of pressing.

“Ah—that is, nothing’s _wrong_ , exactly, it’s just—” Jamie waves her hand around vaguely. “You know how things can be.”

Frances nods. “Do you want to… talk about it?”

Jamie winces again. “I’d rather do anything else, I think.” She drops her napkin fluff on the table and braces her hands against it. “Sorry Frances, I didn’t mean to put a damper on the evening. After we had recovered from my tirade and everything.”

“No, it’s alright. You didn’t.” If anyone did, it who whoever was on the other end of that call. Hopefully not the boyfriend.

Well— _no_. _Don’t even think it_ , she tells herself, _don’t let yourself be that awful._

“So, erm—do you have any plans for the holiday?” Jamie asks, fingers searching for some piece of napkin with any integrity left.

Frances quietly slides her spare napkin over, earning a heart-wrenchingly soft smile. “My siblings and I all get together at my sister’s house in Banbridge each year. It’s a bit of a ruckus.”

“Oh?”

Frances shifts upward in her seat and nods, keeping her voice as nonchalant as she can. “Well, I’m the eleventh child,” she says, pausing for the surprise on Jamie’s face, “of thirteen.”

“Oh my god.”

Frances grins. “I know.”

“That’s— _wow_.”

“This is why we don’t get together more often.” She bites her lower lip. “’S like a small army.”

Jamie is smiling again, bemused; Frances is relieved to see it “How many gifts do you…?”

“Yeah, once I became Aunt Frances about a dozen times over we had to stop doing everything en masse. Each generation does a single gift exchange type of thing.”

“Huh,” Jamie says, slouching back in her seat. “That’s actually quite clever.”

“It was until I had to get my brother something while he was going through his mid-life crisis,” she says wryly. “What about you? Going anywhere?”

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Jamie shakes her head. “Might go with Dundy to his parents for Christmas Eve or Day, but I’ll probably spend most of the rest of it marathoning Austen movies on the couch.” She shrugs. “You’ll probably be away for a bit, then?”

Frances nods.

“Are you taking your pets?”

Frances groans and rubs a hand over her face. “Uhg, no, and that reminds me I’ve still got to find somewhere for Terror. There isn’t a single decent place for pet boarding in the city that doesn’t want one’s firstborn as payment.”

Jamie makes a sympathetic noise. “I hear the one for dogs are even worse.”

“Too right,” Frances says. “Luckily Thomas and Esther are taking Neptune or I’d be out the deed to my house as well.”

Jamie makes a questioning noise.

“Ah—Esther’s allergic to cats and I’m not going to ask her to mainline antihistamines for two weeks just so I can save money.” She rests her check of her first and drums her fingers against the table. “So I’ve got to find a place that’ll actually keep my terrible cat alive.” And that Frances doesn’t have to race back to after a week because the monster’s gone and bit someone.

“I can take her.”

Frances jerks her head up. “Sorry?”

“Yeah, I could take her,” Jamie says. “I’m pretty decent at keeping cats alive, if I do say so myself, and at most I’ll charge you a free meal. I expect the firstborn’s more of a long-term payment plan, so maybe we’ll leave that up for discussion.”

Frances blinks. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Jamie smiles and shakes her head. “Not at all. I’ll be at my flat every night anyway. Dundy’s parents are only an hour away, so even if I go up with him I’ll be coming back to take care of Erebus.” She takes a sip of her lemon Pellegrino and leans forward with a commiserating grin. “I also didn’t want to pay a fortune for cat sitting.”

Oh, god, Frances could _kiss_ her for this—Frances could—Jamie is looking at her with a little smile that still reaches her eyes and Frances—

Fuck, shit. _Frances_ is _projecting_. She pulls back in her chair and smiles nervously. She’s projecting all her own interest onto Jamie, just like she’s imagined the little flicker of disappointment in her face, and _Christ above_ it absolutely _has_ to stop.

She can’t keep doing this. Not to Jamie, and not to herself.

“That would be wonderful,” Frances finally replies after too long of a silence. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

Jamie looks at her, brow slightly furrowed. Then she smiles, a slow, rich grin that crinkles her eyes and wrenches something in Frances’ poor, beaten little heart. “For you, Frances? Not at all.”

Frances enjoys history—she wouldn’t have made it her bloody career, otherwise—and she truly likes teaching it to her students, no matter how much she might gripe about it. Still, lecturing with Jamie might be some of the most fun she’s had teaching in a long time.

At this point it’s like having a conversation they’ve run through a dozen times over, all the little kinks and pauses ironed over and made seamless. Frances still grins when Jamie makes an unexpected little joke and a few of Jamie’s students actually laugh at something Frances shoots back, and it’s—it’s just nice.

Jopson spends most of the time beaming in the front row with Edward next to them looking like he might be losing his mind and quite happy about it.

Frances is a little sad when it’s over, all that planning and build up released, but then all the students file out of the room and Jamie turns around and beams at her and, well. It’s difficult to be melancholy in the face of that.

She wanders by Jamie’s office later that day, hoping some excuse to continue their evenings together will come readily to mind. Nothing does, but it ends up being a moot point since Jamie isn’t actually in her office. The door’s locked and the window’s dark, which sends an odd little flair of relieved disappointment spiralling in Frances’ chest.

She considers waiting around in case Jamie has just stepped out for a bit, but the thought of her coming back and finding Frances lurking outside her dark office without even a decent reason to be there proves too harrowing. They’re friends, of course, but—Jamie would find that weird, wouldn’t she?

Christ, she’s too fucking old for this.

Frances sets her shoulders and turns to leave, shooting once last glance back at Jamie’s door, and—huh.

There’s a new addition on Jamie’s office door that hadn’t been there when Frances came by last week—if it had been, she’s fairly certain she’d have noticed. It’s only a sticker, maybe ten centimetres square, that marks the office as a safe space for LGBTQ students. It’s not an abnormal sight on campus—Frances has an older, slightly worn one stuck up back when she first moved into her own office—but it still brings a wobbly little smile to her face.

It’s a reassurance, not a revelation, but it’s still a nice thing to see. Nice enough that she sends Jamie a message about it the next morning.

> **f.crozier (08:35):** Saw your new office decoration yesterday. That design’s a lot less dated than mine
> 
> **f.crozier (08:35):** Franklin gave me the most passive-aggressive little comments when I put it up years ago so here’s hoping he’s too daft to notice anyone else’s profession of allyship
> 
> **f.crozier (08:36):** Or maybe here’s hoping he does notice? Could go either way, depending
> 
> **j.fitzjames (08:40):** Frances you’ve no idea how frustrated I am over the fact that you’ve just given me the perfect setup for a joke that I maybe shouldn’t make over a university server
> 
> **f.crozier (08:40):** ?
> 
> **f.crozier (08:41):** Would text do?
> 
> She sends the message and then another with her personal number. Then she clenches and unclenches her hands to try and will away the little thrill that shoots through her.
> 
> **j.fitzjames (08:41):** YES BRILLIANT

Frances pulls her phone out and sets it on the desk beside her computer. She tries to go back to work instead of staring at it like an idiot—but then it lights up and she gives up on all pretence of not having been waiting.

> **Unknown Number:** Right ok, for appropriate joke setup I need you to re-send that last message 
> 
> This is Jamie btw
> 
> Really?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** YES really Frances trust me
> 
> You’re so dramatic
> 
> Fine, alright
> 
> “Or maybe here’s hoping he does notice? Could go either way, depending”
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** JUST LIKE ME

_What?_ Frances thinks for half a second, and then— _Oh._ And then, for a moment, _oh, she’s like—_

Then she realizes she’s been staring at her phone for nearly three minutes now and she really ought to reply, shouldn’t she? To make sure Jamie doesn’t—but she knows Frances is gay, so she shouldn’t think Frances is uncomfortable—but still, even a joke to another queer person takes a little vulnerability—

She panics and sends the first reasonable thing she can think of.

> How many terrible bi (pan?) puns do you have waiting to go
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** “Terrible”, she says
> 
> I am unappreciated in my time
> 
> (So many bi puns. Just…. So many)
> 
> Bi-llions?

Well. This was certainly more of a revelation than Frances had been expecting. She’s grateful Jamie feels comfortable enough to share her bisexuality with her, and not a little bit amused at how consistent her life is in the fact that everyone Frances knows well turns out to be a little bit queer, but none of that is why her heart is turning over in her chest.

Frances forces herself to take a breath. Maybe this is why Frances hasn’t quite been able to get over her less-than-platonic feelings for Jamie; she’s out of practice dealing with unrequited interest in women of actually compatible orientations. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Jamie’s in a relationship, or the way that Jamie likes Frances, and certainly not the way that Frances likes her.

> **Jamie Fitzjames:**!!!
> 
> FRANCES :-D

Frances has barely been at her sister’s for forty-eight hours but she swears she’s thought of Jamie twice as many times.

They’d managed to see each other a few times in the week after term ended and before Frances left; she’d even gone to Jamie’s flat again, the last time, when Jamie was making dinner and her boyfriend was out somewhere else.

“I have something for you,” Jamie had announced after they’d finished their food and spent a half hour mocking a shit Christmas film.

“Ah—” Frances sat up straight, half in a panic. “I didn’t—”

Jamie waved a hand at her. “It’s not a present, Frances, relax. It’s just a… thing I have that I thought you’d like.”

Frances felt like swallowing her tongue. “But I…”

“Really Frances, it’s not even wrapped.” Jamie stood up from the couch; Frances perched uneasily on the edge, watching her move toward the hall. “If you feel uncomfortable about it you can give me something after New Year’s, alright?”

“Alright,” Frances hesitantly agreed. She’ll just have to figure out something that Jamie’ll love. Somehow.

“Now, really,” Jamie started as she walked back into the room, an oddly-shaped wooden box tucked under her arm, “don’t go feeling guilty, Frances, we hadn’t talked about gifts so you in no way owe me one—and honestly, this isn’t even really a gift, it’s just something I’ve had lying around for a bit that I thought you’d appreciate a lot more than me.”

Jamie folded herself back down onto the couch, holding out the box with surprisingly little ceremony. “Go on then,” she said, nodding at it.

Frances set her water on the side table and turned back to take the box from Jamie with two careful hands. It was a sort of triangular shape, with a bit cut off at one point and the other two connected by a curve instead of a straight line. Frances shot a nervous glance back up at Jamie. “Are you sure?” she asked, still feeling unmoored.

Jamie smiled. “Absolutely. Go on, open it up.”

Frances unhooked the latch with slightly shaking hands and eased the lid open on its hinge. Inside, nestled in a worn bed of velvet, was an unpolished brass sextant. From the early 1800s, if she had to hazard a guess. Maybe before.

She looked back up at Jamie with wide eyes. “I—” she started, then cut herself off.

“You can pick it up, you know. It’s quite sturdy.”

Frances could barely think about touching it. “Maybe later,” she murmured, stroking a fingertip down the threadbare velvet. “You just had this _lying around_?”

Jamie flushed, coughing. “Right, well, I happened to be over at someone’s house while they were having their attic cleaned out and this was a sort of—” Jamie clicked her mouth”—party favour? From them to me.”

Frances hadn’t even known where to start with that, so she simply blinked at Jamie and turned back to the sextant. On the lower rim of the box was a little metal plaque that she had missed before; it was engraved, in curling letters, with _J.G._

Frances shook her head in to clear it. “This—this should go in an archive or a museum collection or—”

“Or a history professor’s office?” Jamie asked wryly. “Frances, trust me when I say I’m fairly certain this was the least significant thing in that attic. They certainly wouldn’t have let me walk away with it otherwise.”

“I—Jamie—I can’t accept this,” Frances shook her head, closing the lid.

Jamie laid a hand on the box. “If you don’t want it, that’s one thing, but honestly Frances. I want you to have it.” She gave a little grin, shifting forward on the couch cushions until her knee brushed against Frances’ leg. “You’d be doing me a favour, actually, otherwise I’d have to figure out how to take care of it and display it and all that nonsense. Else I’d really just let it rust away in that box.”

“Brass doesn’t rust,” Frances murmured absently.

“See?” Jamie beamed. “You already know more about it than I do.”

Frances stared down at the wooden box. She couldn’t take this. She really, really couldn’t; not only was it someone’s family heirloom that Jamie had somehow been _given_ , but she’d never be able to find something of equal meaning to give back. It was a naval history scholar’s treasure and she had no right to it.

But Jamie was giving it to her and oh, did Frances want it.

“Alright,” she finally said, voice choked. “Thank you, Jamie, this is—it’s absolutely lovely. I’m quite—stunned. And, ah, grateful.”

Jamie’s smile softened. She folded her arms on the back of the couch and rested her head against them. “I knew you would be,” she said, looking as pleased as Frances wanted her to always be.

It isn’t that she can’t stop think about the sextant, currently tucked safely away on a shelf in her home office, because it’s not like she’s spending every conversation with her siblings half-distracted and wistful for that soft smile; but every quiet moment that lasts long enough leads to her drifting back to the memory, to the weight of that box in her hands and Jamie’s eyes of her face.

She’s thinking of Jamie a lot, to be quite honest. And the least ridiculous thing to do with that impulse is text her, so Frances pulls out her phone and does just that.

> How’s the Austen marathon going?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** I know you thought that was a joke but I’m actively yelling at Anne Elliot right now
> 
> Because?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Because she has got to move the HELL ON from Wentworth and be the kick-ass woman she was meant to be
> 
> I thought you loved the Austen heroes?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Is the character compelling and well written? Yes
> 
> Do I personally have a vendetta against him? Extremely yes
> 
> I know I’m only a historian but that feels like a controversial take in the land of Austen academics
> 
> Surely he can’t be all that bad?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Frances
> 
> I need you to know that I am trying very hard to restrain myself from a text rant about Jane Austen and you are testing my self-control
> 
> Lecture away

Frances watches her screen, grinning loosely, as the indication that Jamie’s typing appears—and lingers, for quite some time.

> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Don’t say I didn’t warn you
> 
> Alright SO
> 
> I get the appeal of the “stoic, successful naval captain who you thought hated you but it turns out was just too enamoured with your inner strength and kindness to not fall hopelessly in love with you” thing. Trust me, I DO
> 
> But
> 
> I really think it’d be a more interesting character arc to have her let go of her past relationship with him and move on with her life
> 
> There’s even Benwick right there! Present and available and maybe a little emotionally damaged but still very capable of love!
> 
> But isn’t the whole point of the book about the strength of Anne’s constancy?
> 
> With that “women loving longest” bit and all
> 
> She loves him, even when she thinks her doesn’t love her and is going to marry someone else
> 
> Not to say she should be automatically rewarded for that, or anything, but… The point is she doesn’t move on. Neither of them do
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** First of all, Frances, I am deeply wounded that you’ve been hiding such a wealth of opinions on Austen from me
> 
> And I don’t know I just…
> 
> Moving on is almost always the healthiest thing a person can do, in situations like this
> 
> People don’t just fall back in love because they’re pined after
> 
> No, you’re right
> 
> But sometimes they don’t fall out of love at all
> 
> Even if they, admittedly, probably should
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** I suppose so
> 
> Things always end in a more thematically satisfying way in novels, don’t they?
> 
> Anyway, at least she doesn’t marry William Elliot, the utter pillock

There’s little argument she can make with that, and she says so. Frances finishes up her cup of tea while waiting for Jamie’s response, but then her second eldest niece is asking is Aunt Frances was to help her build a snowman, so Frances says yes and makes sure Amelia is as bundled up as she’ll allow before shuffling outside after her.

It hasn’t snowed much in Banbridge this year, but there’s enough of it on the ground that they manage a sort of lumpy, child sized snowman with two twiggy arms, pebble eyes, and a salvaged pinecone nose. It isn’t the prettiest thing, but Amelia seems duly satisfied with it, scrabbling about in the snow and chattering at Frances about anything that seems to come to mind.

“Well,” Frances says when they’ve stepped back to admire their work, “I’d say that’s a job well done. What do you think?”

“’S good!” Amelia says, grinning out a much cuter version of Frances’ own gap-toothed smile.

“Shall we go back in and warm up, then?”

“Um,” Amelia says. Frances looks down and catches her chewing on her lip. “Can I ask you a question?” she asks in a quick, _cannaskyoua_ blur.

Frances blinks. “Of course. What is it?”

“Do you think my Mum and Dad would let me cut my hair like yours?”

The non-sequitur catches Frances by surprise. It takes her a moment to reorient her brain to the unexpected topic, though she’s still not sure why Amelia is asking. “Probably,” she says. “At least I don’t see why not. Do you want to cut your hair short?”

Amelia fidgets from side to side, shoulders tensed up, arms crossed tightly. “I—It’s just—” she takes a deep breath. “Everyone acts like girls are supposed to have long hair and that’s just how it is but I don’t like having long hair and—and you’re a girl and you have short hair so why—why can’t—why can’t I?”

Oh. That—well, Frances has some experience with that.

“Slow down, Amelia, take a breath.” Frances puts her hands on her niece’s puff-covered shoulders and waits for a breathy inhale and exhale. “And look, your parents are pretty alright, hm? I’m sure if you ask them and explain that you want to cut your hair and that you’ve thought it through then they won’t really mind.”

Frances hadn’t taken such a measured approach, herself; she’d gotten her first big chop behind the girl’s school after classes on a Friday afternoon and shown up at home without a word mentioning it. Her parents had been loudly exasperated, but there was only so fast hair could grow, so Frances got to keep her slightly uneven, unflattering shave that made her feel so happy she could burst.

But Frances had been three years older and living in an entirely different century, and she really is certain that Thomas and Mary will be surprised but amenable if Amelia announces she wants short hair.

“You think so?” Amelia asks, small and hopeful.

Frances nods. “I do. You’ve got a good set of parents there—they love you, yeah? That’s not going to change just because you want to cut your hair.”

The tension in Amelia’s shoulders does not ease. “And what if,” she starts, voice quiet enough that Frances has to strain a little to hear it, “what if I want something they don’t—like. If I want—people they don’t like. Um,” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, “um, like _girls_.”

Frances looks down at the knit-clad head of her niece and gives herself five heartbeats to hope she doesn’t make a mess of this. Then she crouches, kneeling in the cold, wet snow, and catches a pair of big, scared blue eyes with her own.

“I have a friend,” Frances starts, then lets out a little laugh. “I have a very clever friend, and she once told me that one of the strongest things someone can do is stand up for who you are, for what really matters to you, even when something stands in your way.” The memory of Jamie looking across their table at her flashes in her mind’s eye; Frances keeps going, bolstered by the thought. “Only you get to decide who you are, alright? So long as you do your best to be as kind and decent a person as you are right now, then the people who love you will love you for who you are. Not despite it. And that means your parents and your friends and me.”

Amelia throws her bony arms around Frances’ neck and buries herself into a hug. Frances holds her tight and aches with love, for Amelia and herself and the scared little eleven-year-old that’s still within her.

“I know it’s scary,” she says quietly, “and I know it’s hard. But for what it’s worth, I really don’t think your parents will love you any less if you like girls. They still like me, don’t they?”

“We only see you once a year,” Amelia mutters.

Frances lets out a breath. “Right, well, that’s honestly more of a logistics thing than anything else.”

Amelia giggles into her shoulder, then pulls back, sniffling a little, and wipes at her face with her coat sleeve. Frances stands up, knees a little numb and protesting.

“Your friend—um, the one who said that—is she like,” Amelia swallows, “like _us_ , too?”

Frances flushes a little. “Yes, she is.” Then she thinks of something—“Actually, I’ve got quite a few friends that are like us. Or that are different but still understand. If you want,” she says, “and if your parents are okay with it, maybe the next time you have a holiday you can come visit me and meet them.”

Amelia looks up at her, wide-eyed and almost smiling. “Yes! Yes, please, I’d like that very much!”

Frances smiles back; two gap-toothed girls grin at each other in the snow. Then Amelia frowns, pouting. “But I haven’t got another holiday for _forever_.”

Frances laughs. “Well, how about I give you my phone number and my email, hm? And you can write me while you wait for forever to pass. Now come on, I’m freezing, let’s go inside.”

Amelia nods manically, then grabs Frances’ hand and starts dragging them back toward the house, where they stomp the snow off their boots, hang up their coats, and move back into the warmth together.

The morning of Christmas Eve finds Frances sitting at the kitchen counter, watching Charlotte bustle about the kitchen in preparation for the twenty-person dinner they’re having tonight.

“I’ve finished most of the cook-ahead things already,” Charlotte is saying from deep inside a cabinet, “and William’s bringing over the bread against since he’s so close.”

“And his is better,” Frances whispers into her tea.

“Oi,” Charlotte says, turning around and brandishing a pair of tongs. “I heard that.”

Frances puts her hands up. “William’s bread is mediocre compared to your perfectly created loaves that the saints themselves weep over.”

“Too right,” Charlotte grins, eyes glittering in the morning light.

She goes back to digging in the cabinets, pulling out dishware and pots and pieces of ancestral cookware Frances has seen exactly once a year since she was born. “I’m doing the roast potatoes again, right?” Frances asks over her tea, eyeing the steadily growing pile of serving platters and bowls and cooking utensils.

Charlotte hums an affirmative. “And I’ve double checked the ingredients for everything, so there shouldn’t be a repeat of last year’s butter shortage.”

They both wince at the memory.

“You’re a veritable hero, Charlotte.”

Charlotte grins back at her. “And don’t you dare forget it.”

Frances’ phone lights up on the counter; she’s unable to suppress the grin when she sees that it’s a message from a Jamie, and Charlotte was never one to let something like that pass.

“Someone must have good news,” she says with a knowing tone. “Haven’t seen you smile like that since Erin Brady said she liked your jacket in your year ten.”

“Shove off,” Frances shoots back. “You fell off a wall when Ian Donnelly complemented your ‘form’.”

“And then we went out for two months, didn’t we?”

Frances rolls her eyes, swiping her phone open to Jamie’s message.

> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Did you know that I own Too Many Things
> 
> I’m shocked
> 
> Trying to pack for your holiday trip?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Trying to use the spare time to tidy up, more like
> 
> I’m actually not going to the Le Vesconte’s this year
> 
> Today or tomorrow
> 
> You’re not?
> 
> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Dundy’s FINALLY proposing to his girlfriend so I gracefully bowed out
> 
> Family occasion and all that

“Oh,” Frances says. Charlotte makes a questioning noise.

> **Jamie Fitzjames:** He was right awkward when he mentioned it and I was just like “mate, I’m not going to intrude on your engagement that I am already tired of hearing about it’s FINE bring me leftovers and we’re even”
> 
> He’s been unnecessarily worried about this for months and I know I’m not the briefest of wits but I swear I’ve run flat out of supportive friend chat
> 
> “Yes I think she’ll say yes. No I don’t think she hates you. Of course she doesn’t pity you even though SHE SHOULD”
> 
> I mean he’s my best mate and I love him but THANK GOD it’s almost over

Frances—She—Something in her stomach has curled up and stretched out and leapt into her ribcage all at the same time. She had thought—but oh, oh, _maybe_.

“Francie, is everything alright?”

Frances looks up at Charlotte, eyes wide, and grasps helplessly for words. Her phone buzzes again—she looks down at it lightning fast.

> **Jamie Fitzjames:** Anyway you’re probably with your family right now so I’ll stop lighting up your phone
> 
> Happy Christmas Eve, Frances

_No_ , she wants to send, _don’t go_. _Don’t go, just stay, I’ll come to you—_

Frances inhales sharply and looks up at Charlotte. “Do you think I’m spontaneous?” she asks, sounding gutted to her own ears.

There’s never been a Crozier who wasn’t blunt, and Charlotte is no exception. “No.”

Frances’ jaw works silently. “And is that…” she trails off. “Is that a bad thing?”

Charlotte sets the pot on her hip back down on the countertop. “Not necessarily,” she starts slowly, propping a hip against the counter. “It probably wouldn’t hurt you to live a little, Franny, but I’m never worried I’ll get a call about you dead in a ditch somewhere.”

_Not anymore, at least_ , goes blessedly unsaid.

Frances looks back at her phone. “Hmn.”

Charlotte crosses her arms. “Is this about a girl?”

“Nngk,” Frances says. “Maybe.”

Charlotte raises an eyebrow and Frances is viscerally reminded of confessing every childhood crush to her sister’s patient face. “Tell us about her, then,” she says, so Frances does.

At first, she can’t think of anything to say. She stumbles through a few words, a few sentences like pulling teeth—but then it’s like something unsticks, some knot slips and a gate swings open. She runs her mouth on and on about Jamie; tall and beautiful and charming, skilled and clever and funnier than Frances ever gives her credit for. A woman with a sense of rightness who found a way to fix a mistake that wasn’t really her fault. Her friend, who sat beside her and spoke with her and chose to listen.

And maybe she sounds a bit like a pining fourteen-year-old, but Frances has accepted that there’s not really any changing that when it comes to how she feels about Jamie. And Charlotte asked, anyway.

“Oh, Franny,” her sister says while Frances takes a gulp of tea to rehydrate her dry mouth. “You’re a bit gone on this one, aren’t you?”

Frances puts down the tea and buries her face in her hands.

“So, let me get this straight. You though she was dating her roommate who, it turns out, it about to propose to his _actual_ girlfriend?” Charlotte twist her mouth to the side. “Bit off the mark, weren’t you?”

Frances sputters, flipping her hands out. “She never mentioned! We ate dinner together three nights a week, I guess I assumed it would’ve come up!”

“Did you ever show any friendly interest in this not-boyfriend?”

Frances bites her lip. “I might’ve… not…” She scrubs a hand across her face. “At first it didn’t seem very professional and then I didn’t want to hear about her no-doubt perfect relationship. For my sanity’s sake.”

“The one she wasn’t having.”

Frances drops her forehead to the countertop, folding her hands over the back of her neck. “Yes, it’s all very funny in hindsight,” she mumbles into the cool stone.

Charlotte rubs her shoulder comfortingly. “And she’s at home for the holidays. Taking care of your cat.”

Frances sits back up. “Er, yes. That’s—yes.”

“Hmm.” Charlotte pats her shoulder and moves back toward the cabinets. “Well, it’s a damn good thing you drove, then.”

“I—what?”

She holds up a stack of containers she’s just pulled free from the corner cabinet. “Because you’re taking some food with you when you go back to surprise her. And I doubt they’d let it on a plane.”

Frances blinks. Apparently even when having half-thought-out visions of spontaneity she’s still hopelessly predictable. “But,” she starts, “I can’t just… _leave_ family Christmas. Not after everyone’s come all this way.”

“You can if you want,” Charlotte says, setting a somehow already full container down between them. “You’ve been here for a week already, Franny, I won’t think you’ve abandoned us. And neither will anyone else.”

“Are you sure?” Frances asks weakly.

Charlotte braces her hands against the counter and looks her in the eye. “Don’t think about what you think you should do, Franny. Think about what you _want_ to do. None of us will begrudge you making that choice.” Her mouth quirks up at the edges. “Just ask yourself—do you want to go?”

Frances bites her lip and nods, sharp and certain.

Charlotte smiles. “Right then. If you leave in the next hour you’ll have time to panic before you need to make the ferry.” She piles another few containers full of food on top of the first. “And don’t think you aren’t calling me after all of this and telling me exactly what happens.”

Something made of hope and terror crawls up the back of Frances’ throat. She tries to swallow around it, to keep it contained, but she can’t. It comes spilling out of her mouth as a question: “What if she doesn’t want to see me?”

Charlotte puts down the cake she’s holding and levels her with an unimpressed look. “You said the two of you keep almost kissing? And she went out of her way to let you teach a lecture you’ve been wanting for three years? _And_ she gave you a gift that pretty clearly shows she’s thought a great deal about your interest and passions?”

Frances shuts her mouth with a _click_. “Er—yes.”

Charlotte raises a brow. “She wants to see you.” She grabs a container and starts loading two slices of cake into it. “And if she doesn’t, you’ll have this cake to console you.”

It sounds simple when Charlotte says it. Sounds like maybe Jamie does…

But Frances remembers that awful fight in the lift and ruthlessly terse way she had treated Jamie even before all that; Charlotte hadn’t been there, hadn’t lived every moment of unjustified distain that Frances sent Jamie’s way. She knew about the current Jamie, and the current Frances, but she didn’t know the whole story.

The great, awful tale of Frances’ mistakes.

Frances shakes her head, curling her hands together into a painfully tight grip. “I was _horrible_ to her, Charlotte. And I don’t—I don’t even know why she’s my friend after that, let alone…” She hunches over the kitchen counter, mouth flat, an ache building up behind her eyes. “There’s no benefit for her, not really. Not in me.”

Charlotte puts everything down and walks around the counter, pulling at Frances’ shoulders until she turns around. Then she wraps her arms around Frances and pulls her into a tight embrace. Frances clings to her, burying her face in her big sister’s shoulder and letting her hold her together.

Charlotte pulls back and brushes a piece of hair away from Frances’ face. She braces her hands on Frances’ shoulders, looks her straight in the eye, and say, “You don’t get to decide for Jamie whether all that still hurts her. But when she tells you you’re her friend _and_ she acts like it, you do have to trust that she means it. That she doesn’t want you punishing yourself—or her, or the both of you—for something she’s already forgiven you for.”

Charlotte smiles, soft and a little sad. “You’re allowed to be loved, Frances. You don’t have to justify why people like you.”

Frances lets out a deep, shuddering breath. Then she breathes in again.

She’s packing up her things when the thump of adolescent feet sounds outside her door—and then an anxious knocking taps out onto the wood.

“Come in,” Frances calls. The door creaks open to reveal Amelia, swaddled in a family sweater, frowning at Frances. “You’re leaving? Already?”

“Ah—“ Frances sits down on the edge of her guest bed. “Yes. I am.”

Amelia fidgets in the doorway. “But—why?”

Frances pats the mattress next to her; Amelia reluctantly slinks over and perches on it, looking at her hands.

The bed is blanketed by a worn, faded quilt that Frances had used innumerable times as a girl; Charlotte remembered, somehow, and made a quiet point to put it out for Frances every time she came to visit. The first girl Frances had ever kissed, she had kissed while sitting cross-legged on this quilt.

She leans back and tries to explain. “Do you—you know those ridiculous romantic comedies? The one your dad likes to pretend he doesn’t like?”

Amelia nods. “He loves _Love, Actually_. Actually.”

Frances barks a laugh. “Christ. Well—you know how there’s that bit at the end of all those films where someone… runs through an airport or interrupts a wedding or some nonsense?”

“Oh my god.”

Frances hesitates and holds a hand up. “I feel like I should preface this by saying don’t do any of those things, especially if they’re in public and _especially_ especially if you haven’t discussed it with the other person. Previously.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “Yes, alright, I know not to flash mob ask someone out unless I’m sure they’ll like it.”

“Er—good. Good. Uh, because you might think it’s okay, but it might make them seriously uncomfortable—”

“Oh my _god_ , Aunt Frances, stop trying to teach me a life lesson and keep packing!” Amelia grabs her arm and shakes it a little. “And also tell me more about your grand g—um, grand gay gesture.”

Frances laughs, uncertain but happy, and stands up to finish shoving things into her bag. Amelia squirms around until she’s sitting with her knees folded up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs, peering up at her with wide, enraptured eyes.

“Uh, well—” Frances clears her throat, feeling warm, unable to stop the giddy smile sticking to her face. “Do you remember that friend I had? The one who said that bit about standing up for things.”

Amelia nods. “Mmhmm!”

“Well I—I like her. Very much. And I’ve just found out that there’s a chance she might return the sentiment.”

Amelia shifts from side to side, mattress squeaking beneath her. Frances looks at her niece and realizes that this is probably the first time she’s sat in a bedroom and knowingly talked to a queer woman about—well, about their _crush_. Frances hadn’t felt comfortable doing that until she was well on her way to twenty-five, and even then it’d felt like confessing a weakness.

“What is she like?” Amelia asks as Frances wraps up her laptop changer and stows it in her bag.

“You know, I was just telling Charlotte about this,” Frances mumbles, then shakes her head. You’d think that would’ve made it easier. “Erm, well—she teaches at the same university as I do. Literature, mostly, but also a lecture on queer history. Um,” Frances makes a face, “she’s got a cat? And she likes Jane Austen.”

Amelia still looks engaged, but there’s a hint of vague confusion there too. Frances can empathize. She sighs, closes her bag, and sits back on the bed. “She—” Frances closes her eyes, crosses her arms, and thinks of Jamie.

“She’s honestly so clever,” is what she says a few moments later. “You’d expect it, given that she’s an academic but really, you should hear about some of my other colleagues—maybe later. But she’s well-rounded, er, intellectually, and she can have a conversation on just about anything. And make a decent argument about it, too!” Frances grins, spreading her hands in the air in front of her. “She can make friends with anyone, too, if she’s trying. Just charm them into an hour-long conversation, even if she’s only just met them. Because she’s an engaging person, but also… She knows when to listen, yeah? She’ll talk for hours about a gap year she spent in China if you let her, but when it comes down to it, she—she pays attention. To other people, and—and the world.”

Jamie had her flaws, certainly, little things that would’ve driven Frances mad if she’d let them—she was perpetually five minutes late and never really sorry about it, she could be a bit vain about her hair and the way English weather apparently ruined it, and the woman never met a paper napkin she wouldn’t shred—but God knows Frances has her own set of annoying little quirks, and she was well willing to put up with Jamie’s for the reward of spending time with her. She had even started to find them endearing.

“She just wants to love the world _so much_ ,” Frances continues, a golden, glowing feeling swirling in her chest. “Even the awful bits of it. And she makes me want to love it too.”

Amelia exhales a soft _aw_ , a little glimpse of gap teeth peeking through the soft smile on her face. “She sounds really great,” she says.

Frances reaches a hand out to ruffle her niece’s untidy hair. “Yeah. She is.”

Five hours and two countries later and Frances is about two-thirds of the way into the most anxious ferry ride of her life when her phone starts ringing in her pocket. She shuffles away from the other few passengers whose lives must be as equally a mess as hers to be on this particular ferry, and answers.

“Hello Jane. Happy Christmas Eve.”

_“Hello Frances! Happy Christmas Eve to you too. How is everything going?”_

“Oh,” Frances says, voice cracking a little, “just swimmingly.”

_“And how is the extended Crozier clan?”_

“Ah—” she clears her throat. “I’m sure they’re all still fine.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Frances tucks her free arm around herself.

_“Do you not_ know _?”_

Frances makes a vaguely negative sound in the back of her throat.

_“Frances…”_ Jane pauses, like she almost doesn’t want to ask. _“Where exactly are you right now?”_

Frances makes a face and peers out the smudged window at the water. “Erm—about two hours into the Irish sea?”

Another weight pause follows, then the sound of Jane breathing deeply and holding the phone away to say, _“this might be a bit long, love, Frances is doing something unpredictable.”_

“Oi,” Frances perfunctorily complains when it’s clear Jane is listening again.

_“Is something wrong, Frances? Are—did someone say something?”_

She shakes her head reflexively, then says, “No, no. My family’s all fine, honest.”

_“Alright, well, that’s good. So then why…?”_

“Jamie likes women and her boyfriend’s proposing to his actual girlfriend that’s not her,” Frances blurts out. One of the other passengers shoots her a look, so she turns further away from them, hunching in on herself.

_“Uh—”_

“Shit, sorry, let me explain that properly. Um,” she closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Right, well, remember how I thought Jamie—Jamie Fitzjames, the one who I, erm—well, remember how I thought she was straight and dating her roommate? Henry?”

_“I…sure.”_

“As it turns out she is neither of those things.”

Frances taps a finger on the little window while waiting for Jane to respond. She leaves a little smudge of fingerprint, clustered around with the other smudges of countless fingerprints from people who were here before her.

Probably someone else has stared out this window and had a conversation that felt just as important to them as this one seems to Frances.

Jane breaks the silence with a cough. _“So—sorry, let me get this straight. Or not so much, as it turns out.”_ She laughs. _“A woman who you like very much, who has been having dinner with you multiple times a week for the past two months, is not only of a compatible orientation with you but also single?”_

Frances makes a noise of affirmation.

_“And so now you’re heading back to tell her you love her on Christmas Eve because you’re secretly a sentimental sop.”_

Frances buries her face in her free hand.

_“Oh, Andy says he think that’s very romantic. And also that you should make sure you know where she is before doing anything.”_

“She’s at her flat,” Frances mumbles. “Watching over our cats.”

Jane pauses. _“Oh,_ Frances. _”_

“I know,” she says. “I know.”

Another hour on the ferry and a few more of driving later, and Frances is pulling up to Jamie’s building in the mixed glow of streetlamps and shadows.

Everyone else in Jamie’s building must be away for the holidays because by some miracle of urban living there’s an actual parking spot empty on the street. Frances pulls into it, turns off the car, unbuckles her seatbelt, and panics.

Oh god, oh god, this was a _horrible_ idea, what in bleeding Christ was she thinking? What was Charlotte thinking? That Frances would crawl her way across Ireland and England and just swan into Jamie’s evening like she was wanted there?

God _above_ she was a ridiculous idiot—this is exactly why she doesn’t _do_ grand romantic nonsense or half-baked spontaneous ideas! Because they were inevitably _bad_ ones.

Right, it’s not too late to stop this. She can just turn the bloody car on and go home and shamefully cry into a plate of mince pies and pretend this never happened. Good. Right. That’s the thing to do. She’ll just check Jamie’s window so she can tell Charlotte she wasn’t home and not sound like she’s lying, and then she’ll—

There’s a light in the window, and a shadow moving in front of it.

She can just make it out if she wrenches her head at an uncomfortable angle, but—yes. There it is; a silhouette of someone tall and graceful, pulling back the blinds to look out the window. Frances shoves aside that part of her that’s worried at how creepy this probably is, pushes back the bits of her that are whining warnings at high volume, knocks back the constant, unending patter of _idiot idiot idiot_. She makes all the worries in her head shut up for one short, silent moment.

She looks up at Jamie’s outline, dark in the warm window, and the only thought ringing through her head is _I want to be with her._

Bugger a big spontaneous romantic gesture—this isn’t one, not really. It’s just Frances being honest and saying _I missed you and I didn’t want you to be alone._ It’s just the truth.

She gets out of the car.

The lift to Jamie’s floor is agonizingly slow. There’s terrible Christmas music droning on about a half-key lower than it should be; a flyer pasted to the back wall advertising a building-wide talent show which sounds, quite frankly, horrifying; and bits of shredded tinsel littering the mauve and beige carpet floor.

Frances almost doesn’t get out of it in time.

Then the doors start closing and she swears, jams the door open button, and forces herself into the hallway.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she breathes out shakily, bracing herself. “You’re already here you great idiot, just fucking _do it._ ”

She shuffles the containers to her other hand and pulls her phone out of her coat pocket. Jaime’s flat is just down the hall—Frances will call and makes sure she’s in before knocking. It’s a little secondary school of her, but she sure as hell isn’t going to show up without even a little warning.

Jamie picks up in the middle of the second ring. _“Hello Frances.”_

“Jamie! Hello!”

_“…Yes, Hello. Again. Are you alright? How’s Ireland?”_

“Oh—er. Cold and full of my relatives. Look-are you busy right now?”

_“No, I was just trying to convince the cats to let me cuddle them. Why? Is something the matter?”_

Frances cradles her phone between her ear and shoulder and knocks on the door.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Frances takes a deep breath, clutching her stack of containers tighter. “Will you open the door, Jamie?”

_“Frances—”_ Jamie finally says, then opens the door. Her voice echoes around Frances when she says, “You’re here.”

Yes,” Frances pulls her phone down and slips it into her pocket. She lifts the pile of plastic boxes in her hands. “I brought food.”

Jamie blinks rapidly, seeming to notice the containers for the first time. “You… Brought food?”

“Mmhmm,” Frances nods, voice a little high-pitched. She shoves the stack forward. “For you. If you want. It.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Erm, well, there’s mince pies and Christmas cake and bit of roast—actually, um, just take it and I’ll be—or _don’t_ take if, if you don’t, uh, want it and I’ll still just—” Frances jerks her head back and stars inching away. Terrible idea, awful idea, stop now just try and salvage some amount of dignity—

“Wait!” Jamie grabs her elbow and Frances stills immediately. “You don’t need to leave, I just—is everything alright?”

Frances nods, fighting the urge to drop the food and run.

“Your family is all okay? _You’re_ okay?”

She nods again and manages to hum out an _mmhmm_.

Jamie leans against the door frame, one side of her sweater riding up over the waistband of her black leggings. Her hand is still warm at France’s elbow. “Then… Well, not that I’m not happy to see you, Frances, but why are you here?” She waves her other hand around. “Instead of with your family?”

Frances feels an odd sort of calm wash over her, slowing her panicked heart and loosening the tightened clench of her stomach. It’s as if—now that Jamie knows, now that she’s going to know, it doesn’t seem to matter how vulnerable Frances feels. She _is_ vulnerable, here; but the longer she flinches from it, the more agonizing it is.

And she’s just shown up at Jamie’s door on Christmas Eve. The truth will be out—there’s no use in flinching any longer.

“Henry’s proposing to his girlfriend,” Frances says.

“I—yes? Well,” Jamie looks back at the clock, “he’s probably already done it by now, but—wait, but what does that have to do with –”

“Henry’s proposing to his girlfriend who _isn’t you._ ”

Jamie just stares at her—then something bright starts to dawn on her face. “Frances, let me—so, okay, you left your family on Christmas Eve to drive all the way across the British Isles just to bring me food? Right?”

“Yes,” Frances says. “I did.”

Jamie’s eyes search across her face, dark and brown and hopeful. “Because—because you…”

“Because I didn’t want you to be alone,” she says, and there’s the whole truth of it out in the air. “I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to be, if you didn’t want to. And I didn’t want to be… anywhere but with you.” Frances offers a lopsided smile. “I brought you food because I want to eat dinner with you. I want to eat _every_ dinner with you, if you’ll let me, and I—I thought this would be a good one to start with.”

“We’ve already eaten dinner together,” Jamie murmurs, close enough that Frances can feel the warmth radiating from her.

“A good one not to miss, then,” Frances says, leaning up toward Jamie’s face. Jamie tilts her head down, bringing her hand up to rest her fingertips at the curve of Frances’ jaw. Frances closes her eyes and breathes in; Jamie smells like citrus and woodsmoke and Frances has almost kissed her half a dozen times over but now, finally—

The topmost container clatters to the floor.

Jamie huffs out a frustrated laugh. “Oh for—here, give me those,” she says, picking up the saboteur and pulling the rest of the stack from Frances’ grip. She drops them on the table by the door and turns back to wrap her hands in Frances’ scarf and say, “We’re going to manage an actual kiss _right now_ or I swear to god I’ll think we’re cursed.”

Frances just grins and presses up to kiss her.

Kissing Jamie is just like all those lush, literary metaphors that Frances used to roll her eyes at say it should be. It’s like colours fading in from black and white, like holding lightning in her hands, like a singular moment of a perfect past and future aligned together in a glorious present. It is also, more than any other those things, simply _good_.

It’s a hand sliding into her hair, an arm wrapping around her shoulders, a mouth that smiles and laughs and argues pressed against her own. It’s all their memories and the promise of more, and then Jamie opens her mouth against Frances’ and _oh_ , is it more.

They pull back after a long, breathless moment; Frances can’t help but smile back at Jamie’s now beaming face.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the literal day we met.”

Frances furrows her brow, still smiling. “Even after the lift?”

Jamie flushes and bites her lip. Frances loses two seconds of attention looking at it.

“Even after the lift,” Jamie admits, “though it was a slight bit angrier for about a day. I’m only human.”

Frances wants to kiss her again, so she does.

One of the cats meows—loudly.

Jamie pulls back, Frances following her a little, and blanches. “Oh, god, come in before the cats sense an escape route,” she says, tugging Frances through the door and quickly shutting it behind them. Then she pauses, looking down at Frances as if considering something. Frances’ hands, mostly unbidden, find their way under the soft knitted hem of Jamie’s sweater.

A sly little grin curls across Jamie’s face; she leans down, slides a hand around the back of Frances’ head, and pushes her back the two inches to the door.

They do eventually get into the food, divvying up slices of roast and pies and kissing against the cabinets while they wait for everything to heat up. Charlotte’s cooking is good even after sitting in a car for too many hours, and her Christmas cake has never tasted better than when shared between the two of them.

They make their way over to the couch, tangling their knees together at the last moment and tumbling down onto it in a heap of limbs and giggles. Erebus and Terror startle at the sudden intrusion, flicking their tails and refusing to be cajoled into lying back down; they move themselves to another chair nearby, curling back around each other like a black and white maelstrom of fur and purring.

They spend an hour or so not even pretending to watch the end of whatever film Jamie’s got on—Frances didn’t recognize it and then hadn’t bothered asking—until they end up nestled together on the sofa, Frances running her hand through Jamie’s hair.

Frances pulls her phone out of her pocket to get a little more comfortable and sees a missed text.

> **Jane Ross:** How did it go??

She takes a picture of the two cats, Jamie’s television-lit profile just visible along the bottom edge, and sends it. Then she taps out an update for Charlotte and sends that as well.

> She liked the cake. I’ll call you tomorrow
> 
> Thank you

Jamie shifts in her lap, making a bleary, questioning noise that has Frances’ heart clenching. “’S going on?” she mumbles.

“Nothing important,” Frances says, setting her phone on the side table. “Just letting Charlotte and Jane know everything’s alright.”

Jamie sits up, tucking her feet beneath her and pressing her face into Frances’ shoulder. “How’re you still so awake?” she asks, wrapping a warm arm across Frances’ stomach. “You drove so far today.”

“I think I had too much caffeine, honestly.” Either that or the warm sparks in her chest every time she so much as looks at Jamie are keeping her from drowsing.

Jamie hums into her neck and burrows closer. Then she tilts her head so her mouth isn’t pressed to Frances’ skin and ask, “Frances?”

“Hm?”

Jamie pulls back; Frances turns to look at her.

She’s seen Jamie in half-light before, in sunlight and bar lighting and the awful overhead fluorescents in her classroom; she’s a little bit breath-taking in all of them, now that Frances is being honest with herself. But like this, in the late evening darkness with the lamp behind them casting her face in golden shadow—oh, Frances might never get used to a sight like this but she won’t ever mind trying.

“You should probably know that I’m really quite gone on you,” Jamie says. “In a very not casual way.”

Frances flushes and grins and feels sunlight burning inside of her. “Oh,” she chokes out, raising her hand to cup the tender skin of Jamie’s jaw. “Oh Jamie, me too. God, me too.”

Jamie turns her head to press a kiss to Frances’ fingers—something young and trembling inside her quivers at the soft pressure of Jamie’s lips. Then she smiles and unfolds herself from the couch, standing up and stretching a hand out to Frances.

“Come on then,” she says, “let’s go to bed.”

Frances takes her hand; the clock ticks over into tomorrow.

(“I can’t believe I was teaching a lecture about it and you still didn’t realize I was also queer.”

Frances flushes. “I wasn’t—thinking straight.”

Jamie just grins at her. “Me either.”)

**Author's Note:**

> In this house we follow the E.L. Doctorow school of research which is “just enough to make your lies seem reasonable.” With that in mind, here are some notes that show I did both too much and not enough research.
> 
> General Notes:
> 
>   * Absolutely no part of this fic is an accurate representation of either a UK or US university
>     * Look, by the time I realized UK schools don’t really do electives I was already 15k in
>     * I kept everything else as vague as I could
>   * “Dramaturge” is spelled as it is because this fic proports to using UK spelling but I want you all to know that I’m a strong proponent of the hard ‘g’. ‘Turg or bust.
>   * I stand by every opinion expressed on Shakespeare editions, but I will say I’m also a pretty big fan of the Folger editions for less rigorous academics I just didn’t know how prevalent those are outside of the US.
>   * [This](https://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/vegetables-recipes/stilton-pear-gnocchi/) gnocchi recipe doesn’t call for making them but you know Jamie about to be extra.
>   * Why does this fic end on Christmas Eve? Because there’s no Ireland to England ferry on Christmas Day
>     * I mean, I think. Can’t prove an absence, I guess
> 

> 
> Queer Theory Notes:
> 
>   * These are a few links to the queer theory readings I mentioned and some I did not but still thought were interesting in the context of this fic/the imaginary class I made up for it. I don’t usually link to academic texts in my fics so I’m going to type out the usual “not everything in all of these are things that I agree with, nor are they still totally relevant from a modern and intersectional viewpoint, think critically about the stuff you read and all that” warning.
>   * Also! My queer studies education has largely focused around American writers and theorists, so like… I did some personal research for the British writers but I can’t say I’ve ever studied them intensely.
>   * _Gender Troubles_ (1990) by Judith Butler
>     * Kind of considered a seminal work in the queer theory field. A little bit… of its time.
>     * I’m not going to tell you where to find the easily google-able pdf for this book that is not technically out of copyright but I will say it’s like, the second link on the first page
>   * Audre Lorde
>     * Higher academia decided they would deign to like exactly one black lesbian feminist for about 20 years (honestly continuing into today) and that’s Audre Lorde. She totally deserves this recognition but I’m sure she would agree with me that she is only the beginning of the queer WOC writers we should all be reading
>   * Joseph Bristow
>     * I was specifically thinking about _Effeminate England_ (1997) for the Bristow book on Jamie’s syllabus
> Brain Lewis’ Introduction on British Queer History in the Journal of British Studies 
>     * The footnotes in this were very helpful in an “american baby’s first list of queer theory from across the atlantic” sense
>   * _No Bath But Plenty of Bubbles: An Oral History of the Gay Liberation Front, 1970-1973_ (1995) by Lisa Power
>     * I’m still trying to get my hands on this one so I can’t speak to its exact contents but this looks like it would have absolutely been on the FRMC version of the syllabus
> 

> 
> And that, my friends, is that.


End file.
